Last night I dreamed the Obama administration
held its final congregation in my kitchen. Wolves licked
the window panes. “We don’t need your governance
here,” said they.  “For she is but a wannabe vlogger
made of egg-whites and circa-1999-puns.

The Chief smiled that smile that melts the TV cameras
and whistled down the sink. Jewelers came wriggling out
of the neck of the plumbing and checked my fingers
for diamonds, frowned, then smirked my loneliness.

“I almost married a cricketer once,” I offered too quickly, and
everyone knew.

Everyone knew, because of course the TV cameras
hadn’t actually melted. The Canadian soon-to-be anthropologist
I brought home last night came out and gave Obama
a friendly jab to the ribs, made a joke about agriculture
and was promptly clapped in irons. I looked to the wolves,

but they had become GIFs of bears, and I looked
around the room though no one seemed to notice, but
everyone knew.

Everyone knew that in this moment absolutely everything
was unraveling except for their precious bylines and
I wondered: Would things have been different if I
had brought home a meteorologist?

 

Source: Twitter, first name challenge

Evan Anderson lives and writes in a bowl of a city, surrounded by swamps and brimming with stories and music. He has work published in Gone Lawn, Cleaver Magazine, Cease, Cows, and others. www.evanmichaelanderson.com.