Author's Note: Since Governor Andrew Cuomo seems to have fallen from the man New Yorkers listened to daily and trusted in the Spring of the Pandemic, to someone on the skids for sexual harassment, or perhaps just some good old fashioned flirting, I thought I'd give him what may be his last hurrah. The other poem is about my journey through grief. My second collection of poetry Torohill is forthcoming later this year from Deerbrook Editions.
Being demure, I've had to endure. U Tubes, interviews and essays by women claiming unremitting love for you. There's even a name for them, Cuomo-Sexuals, for God's sake. You need to know that I was first to save my second cup of coffee for your daily briefings. How I wait to see the color of your ties, what lapel pin you chose and gauge how many days since you touched up your hair. And those weekend polos, OMG those muscular arms. I can feel them around me as we speak. When I was twelve I was certain I'd marry Paul McCartney. Oh, I forgave Linda, but not that second one who stole his money. He could have avoided that had only he met me. That's why I'm not letting you go. For four years, I've starved for honest, straight shooting, factual directives, Andy. I call you Andy. I'm not looking for a cheap fling like those other floozies. I want to marry you! Note: I make a mean, tomato sauce. We'll pick up Matilda every Sunday for family dinners and I'll stop fretting about the meatball in the White House. We'll ask Tony Fauci to give me away and Dr. Birx to be my matron of honor, hail her a fashion plate for older women. What do you say, my Captain, my Excelsior?
Great Horned Owls
...fate and metaphysical aid doth seem to have crown'd withal. ~Macbeth, William Shakespeare Owls awaken in spruces. One hoots, I'm here, where are you? I answer, Please stop grief's relentless burrow and gnaw. He dives, claws like switchblades and pierces one regret after another before their nightly scuttle across my attic floor. You dubbed the owl outside our bedroom, Mr. Wildstein. How you loved nicknames. For someone who shunned anything metaphysical, you were the most psychic person I've known. Every one of your short stories came true. You always knew death would swoop in on grey wings and carry you to the highest tree.
©2021 Donna Reis
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