Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Man of the Year (Day 419)


Thoughts coming rapid-fire in ALL CAPS, thumbs 
thwacking the screen, he pauses to consider his 

next bite, chews thoughtfully, hands the half-eaten 
cheeseburger to his wife, who wrinkles her nose as 

she turns away, because he can’t stand her 
insinuating that his bedtime snacks smell nasty, 

and she can’t stand to listen to him yelling, ranting,
demanding, spittle flying, night after night after night.

He seems unable to stop thumping out explosions
of text, punctuated by grunts and farts, creased and 

folded face purpling whenever some asshole journalist
mocks an all-too-human mistake, or even accuses him

HIM?—of deliberately spreading false information
(they have even gone so far as to call him a liar).

Never would he have expected to encounter blatant 
insubordination now that he’s become so...so exalted!

To be honest, though, he was shocked (and rather 
appalled) to find most of his new job so extremely 

confusing and complicated. He misses his own bed, 
his gold toilet seat’s silken warmth against his skin,

and, most of all, he misses watching the sunrise over the 
nation’s REAL capital. But, no. Instead, he’s mired in 

this stinking swamp—a true backwater if ever one existed—
with nothing to show for it but a poorly-photoshopped Man 
of the Year” magazine cover someone forgot they’d Xeroxed.



(c) 2018, by Hannah Six