Unforgiven

I’m sorry, Clint.
It was a noble try.
I think your politics stink
but then I always did.
I remember when you were mayor of Carmel.
You were good at that
and you did a fine job using your office
to protect your restaurant—
as well as the general ambience of town—
but mostly to protect your restaurant.
But you are getting a bum rap now, I think.
No teleprompter, no writers, you just
went for it and now the country says
you are a bumbling fool.
An empty chair.
Here’s a clue, Clint.
The majority of America never heard of Fritz Perls.
For most folks Gestalt Therapy sounds
like the third most expensive option
at Lady Lamia’s House of Exotic Apps.
The majority of the delegates in that room
are the same dull illiterates you use your considerable fortune
to avoid. They are local embarrassments so loathed
by their friends that, to paraphrase Bierce, they are
awarded honors on the express condition
that they agree to leave town.
They loved you but they are all bumfuzzled this morning.
And since there is no one left in the news media
that has ever read a book it could not explain you any better.
Leave your classical debate strategies at the door.
Poor old bastard.
Doddering old fool.
Dim, wasted idiot who directs and acts in Academy Award winning movies,
sleeps with beautiful women, plays excellent piano,
makes gobs of money, and takes no shit from anybody.
What kind of a life is that?
It’s not like you ever accomplished enough to be thrown
a little benefit of the doubt.
Any other star would be explaining himself this morning.
Any other public figure would be trying to earn forgiveness
from the twits (or is it tweets?)
You are so yesterday’s news.
A chair with no man; a man with no name.
Pathetic.

—Don Whittington

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