[ Obama, Poet ]

"Pop" by Barry Obama, 1982:

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken in, sprinkled with ashes, Pop switches channels, takes another shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks what to do with me, a green young man who fails to consider the flim and flam of the world, since things have been easy for me.

I stare hard at his face, a stare that deflects off his brow.

I'm sure he's unaware of his dark, watery eyes, that glance in different directions, and his slow, unwelcome twitches, fail to pass.