Night of the Election

Then, Seamus Heaney's poem -suddenly - gone,
The words became a thing looked at, not read.
But then those, too, went the way of Patrón,
Blanketing whatever dim light November
Had let in. In the poem's place an oyster
Appeared on a plate: languid, the color
Of vanilla, moist fennel, raw silver,
Crushed hay, sunk ships, quince and Jupiter,
Flexing taut, then slack, then taut in its shell;
How, with all that had happened, it managed
To be there, the gorged bulb glistening, well,
Here's where I'd tell you... but a ghoulish
Creamsicle flavor ruined the moment,
A sad irrelevance now relevant.