If I could vote in NYC, I’d rank
no one who could ever ever win.
I’d conjure someone dead and write him in.
I’d eat my pen and leave the ballot blank.
I’d find the manager, give him a frank
and two-star rating. And cue the violin.
I am, in politics, a Bedouin,
camp-wracked and homeless while elsewhere swank
ballrooms of candidates who actually
exist exalt or weep, concede or cheer:
to live-laugh, to eat, pray, love; to be—
How is it so, when reams and reams of factually
precise prognostications made it clear
that the median of medians is me?