Primary Feathers: A parody poem by David Dutilley

DavId Dutilley wrote this poem and presented it in the “coffee house” service on Sunday, January 14th. He agreed to allow us to publish it so everyone could enjoy it.

Once before a primary dreary, while I pondered my vote sincerely

Over many a campaign mailer, piled unexplored.

My heart sat so unenamored, suddenly a noise had stammered 

As if someone gently hammered, hammered hard upon my door 

‘Tis some Uber driver I muttered, delivering pizza to the wrong floor,

Only this and nothing more. 

I sat still in hope he goes, to find some neighbor I suppose, 

Who rightfully ordered Dominos, with toppings piled on galore. 

Or perhaps a tasty soup, delivered to the proper stoop. 

Now quickly quickly Uber driver it’s near mid night, the soup’s du jour. 

My bowl is not intended for its pour. 

And the strange beguiling tricks, of the garbage on Netflix 

Bored me, moored me to my couch like a sloop along the shore 

So that now to prevent rising, I decided upon guising, 

Hoping nothing more surprising, I let out a loud fake snore. 

Another hammering at my door. 

Only Uber, right, for sure. 

My curiosity grew stronger, I could sit still no longer, 

And popcorn crumbs on me, long were 

Scattered down upon the floor. 

Hello, I said, but heard no answer,

Who is this mystery free-lancer, who knock and knocks like a tap dancer

Outside of my apartment door. 

I turn the knob, still so unsure. 

I opened the door, held back the cat, a frail old figure there was sat,

With habitat wrote on his hat, and a hammer and a board. 

Alas it was not some self starter, upon my step with meals to barter, 

It was none other than Jimmy Carter with a tool belt that he wore. 

My cat, she sneaks out of the door. 

By now my wits were all but spent to see the former president, 

Closely inspecting a heat vent and my drywall now restored. 

President Carter, I manage to say, 

Please just Jimmy, he conveys, 

As he slowly makes his way past the open table drawer. 

The mailers there, still unexplored.

Sir, I say what brings you here, at this terrible time of year, 

When the wind blows wild and clear straight down the Merrimack shore? 

He smiles and tells me, it’s okay, I was just fixing your hallway 

I really don’t have much to say, as if they’d listen anymore. 

Onward to the couch we sat, he turned down my thermostat

And we had a nice long chat about the White House Days of yore. 

Faded nearly, to distant lore.  

After that long hour ended, President Carter now befriended 

And more parts of my house mended nicer than they were before

Do I sit out this one sir? He’s off the ballot as it were, 

What’s the worst that could occur, if they won’t tally up our score? 

For a while I have debated, what to do since it was stated, 

Nothing’s to be remediated if the DNC we ignore. 

A primary power, nevermore. 

I’m ninety-nine ole Jimmy said, why not write in me instead? 

We laughed then Jimmy hung his head, much more solemn than before. 

This primary, whatever you do, is honestly just up to you, 

Just leave it blank, stay home and stew, or throw the ballot on the floor. 

But one thing is sure for certain, and that’s America is hurtin’, 

So please step on behind the curtain, in November 24’. 

With that he took an oiled syringe, and lubricated a door hinge, 

Then parting said “Don’t vote orange”. His ideas we should deplore. 

In maneuvers surprisingly deft, he picked up all his tools and left, 

I felt suddenly bereft, moping, hoping that we might wish for something more, 

After 2024.

Copyright David Dutilley 2024

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