I barely remember the drawl,
the drool, the glassy eyes,
the jacket, too big at the shoulder,
violently pushed back by neck,
the thin corners of lip 
drawn by a child’s sharp pen.
The technique was coined then.
The mannerism in the service
of a sleight of mental hand,
the person almost the same man,
the logic Orwellian
equating three to ten.
I’ve often chuckled to Gore Vidal,
on living in a socialist state
for the rich, in democracy
for the rest of the country,
rage and patriotism the refuge
of scoundrels and conmen.
The length of time from
nineteen sixty eight to
two thousand and eighteen,
the span of trading up
the black and white TV
for a much closer screen.
The song remains the same.
The war hides in the background
and our children who missed
its discriminatory gentleness
by hiding in the dark attic
end up in its playpen.