Realpolitik
Autumn 1960. First foray
into the world of party politics.
As neighbors hang their posters up, I flinch—
amid the sea of signs for JFK
ours is the only house displaying Dick’s
bushy brows and slogan. He’s a cinch
to win, a shoo-in, father firmly states,
claiming Nixon’s won all four debates.
For weeks, I am an outcast at my school
where Sister Agnes has us pray so that
Jack Kennedy will win. The ridicule
redoubles once the charming Democrat
becomes our 35th. My mom, no fool,
in February buys a pillbox hat.
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