The bones of the American election are still being picked over

My constitution is strong

as an oxymoron. This is why

I have been counting chickens

with egg on my face.

Everything here is hazy, crazy:

I'm in a sunshine state

without an egg to stand on.

Have to shell out for a chicken.

My fathers were founders keepers.

The eggs they sucked have come

home to roost. They laid down

rules, and they flew the coop

by the skin of a chicken.

Or a turkey. In the funny farm

at high noon, our eggheads cluck

in the dead heat.

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