John F. Kennedy fucks a blonde, and, resting,
peels a bill a cube of paper
He contemplates his veto
It is a grainy, brown-faded dark in the office
There are chips of lamplight
From the street, some weary of the anti-communist demonstrators aim
binoculars through his ruffled office blinds,
solemn, like a stranded Dickensian stagecoach crew
focusing on the nearly indiscernible vanishing point
of the dirt route in the night
Kennedy scratches his naked shoulder
Kennedy tussles his hair
John Fitzgerald swims in the Pacific, knowing
this is the water's name
The veto will issue to a chorus of loading chambers,
however, that's what he fucking promised those beauty-hungry
viewers who hired him with roses
"Veto veto veto.... Veto!
This is simple. I'm dead.
I feel like Nixon's taping me"