I don’t weigh in on politics here or on other social media. There’s no point; I’m certainly not going to convince anyone to believe differently, and I try to avoid unpleasantness when possible (which was not always the case, especially online).
As often happens, the title to this poem floated into my head one night as I was trying to fall asleep. Nothing else came until I sat down and wrote it this morning. Its message is subtle, which I like.
The Politics of the Iron Skillet
It has opinions, you know, not to
mention feelings— shame on us
both for not recognizing the amazing
skillet for what it truly is: a thinker,
a maker, but not a mover or shaker.
It’s a blue dog Democrat that loves onions
and hashbrowns, sunning itself on the stove,
and holding court with the witless saucepans.
Sometimes, in the cool dark, it murmurs to
the microwave that all is lost and nothing
with sense will ever slouch toward Washington.
The fridge thinks everything is treasonous,
but nothing more so than the iron skillet.
We must protect it, you see. It needs us.