On a Wet Night in Mar-a-Lago
On a wet night in Mar-a-Lago, the lights of cars
In the parking lot are washed clean by the rain.
The valets dodge dark puddles, as they run,
Keys in hand, toward two Bentleys—the white one
Or the black? It doesn’t take long. The clouds
Line up above the beach, reflect suburban light.
The tables in the dining room will empty out
Before long: half-eaten chocolate cake carried
By servers back to the kitchen, coffee cups with
Lipstick smudges, oversized brandy snifters,
Tablecloths and napkins stained with brown au jus.
The President had stopped by for a while, as predicted.
Someone says his wife is at the apartment in New York,
And his sons are hunting large animals again in Africa.
The daughters are simply elsewhere. After the guests,
Deflated by the evening’s end, have drifted to their
Rooms or driven away to whatever follows, he
Returns, a slouching figure in slippers, without a tie.
There are no photographers, and he avoids mirrors—
The secret service follows discreetly. It’s easy to forget
They exist, but he wants to be alone in that bathroom
Where they’d kept the bankers’ boxes of papers before
The raid that hadn’t hurt him. Nothing can hurt him.
He arranges himself on the toilet, a place to sit where
No one will ask him if he needs anything. His ankles
Are swollen, red. He doesn’t look at them. The floor
Seems slightly uneven where the boxes were piled.
He takes some papers out of his jacket and reads a little.
His head nods forward, and he bites his tongue. After
An hour, secret service knocks quietly, asks if he needs
Anything. He doesn’t. He won’t. There’s a cold Coca-Cola
In his bedroom. The agents hear him open the can.
Outside, the sky has cleared, and the winter constellations
Turn to the west. The moon has already set. Between
The stars, the blackness goes on forever.
*
Graffiti
The Romans left it in Egypt, the Americans in Italy,
Tagging stone walls or the side of a tomb. There
Must be a need to leave your name displayed
Prominently, so that it’s still there when you’re not—
A few letters, symbols, a design, something
To stand for a body that ate dinner, caught a cold,
Made love, broke the rules, was punished and
Broke the rules again. The legions stayed for a while,
Then moved to Spain or Britain, or the forests
In Gaul. Caesar wrote histories and made
History. Kilroy was anonymous, peering over
A line meant to be a wall, his balloon-like nose
And bald head visible as literature but just as
Likely to be washed away by rain, wind, or a bucket
Of water and soap. All the legionnaires died, one way
Or another. So did Caesar, butchered like
A spring lamb in the Senate. He divided Gaul into three
Parts on a scroll of papyrus and knew most of what
There was to know about fighting battles. It didn’t
Matter. The spray-painted tag on the expressway
Overpass will be gone by summer.
*
George Franklin is the author of eight poetry collections, including the recent A Man Made of Stories, and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing (both Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). Individual poems have been published in The High Window, ONE ART, Solstice, Nimrod, Rattle, New Ohio Review, and storySouth, among others. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez’s Último día/Last Day.
