A MOST IMPORTANT MAN
You think you don’t know me, but you do.
I am Eliot’s eternal snickering footman,
the Anti-Christ’s Groom of the Stool.
My job lacks the refinement of a cabinet post,
but most of the time it has its perks. I know all
the murky details, and I have all the skeleton keys
to all the closets, and every one of them works.
You can find me at the bar, wearing my club jacket,
and I never drink alone. I’m the freaking Al Capone
in charge of investigating the misdeeds of myself.
I give a sweet caress to the hyoid bone of Elliott Ness.
I used to dine with Jeff Epstein and still spit-shine
frumpy old Billy Barr’s valise and sole-less Weejuns.
Sometimes I break out the Ouija board to chat up
Mussolini, and sometimes, over a very dry martini,
we toast Mother Pence and break a crostini into
communion-size bits in remembrance of Scalia. Sure,
I aspire to the cosmopolitan pages of Esquire, like
Beto, but wind up in The Inquirer instead. Alas, alak!
Poor Yorick. I’ll go to my squeaky Procrustean bed
with tee-time with the Taliban dancing in my head.
A man in my position might be called a martinet,
but I assure you, I am held in high trust, guarding
both the scepter and the flashy family jewels, rooting
through the waste, hurling prophets from the parapets.
A man in my position, a penny in the pocket of the throne,
sees the carefully choreographed musical chairs here, all
serving at the ruling sovereign’s whim or as we say, pleasure,
arranging themselves in mad shapes to escape the jesters’
bullets enacted daily in the Star Chamber where the curtain falls
and they scamper and scurry into their hidey-holes in the wall.
You don’t know me, but I pay the hush money and the blood money
to the laundress removing all the stains from the Emperor’s new clothes.