by Michael Atkinson
I sing the song of Rush
Limbaugh’s death, but not
too beautifully, not
in full-throat or with bugle
accompaniment, but gently,
quickly, lest I ruin this,
this might be beautiful if
whisked and dabbed before
it dries, not fussed or be-
labored, this tritest of songs
of dismay and hygiene and blue spring sky,
like a master watercolorist
who knows the ferocity of her paint
and the viscosity of her water,
but more vitally has an instinct
for the vulnerabilities of paper.
______
MA's first collection, One Hundred Children Waiting for a Train (Word Works), won the Washington Prize in 2001. He is a film critic for The Village Voice, and teaches at LIU-Post.
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