Old Jews play Chess and
order Chinese take-out
at the Dresden resort
in Nevada, putting silver coins
with Kurt Vonnegut's face
into slot machines,
drawing two Woody Allens
and a menorah,
then a Leonard Cohen,
a bottle of Manischewitz
and a fortune cookie.
Jesus puts the Beastie Boys
on the jukebox as he is
weary of his company's
complaints on Bob Dylan,
that his voice in one song
that they recall
from the late fifties,
was, as they put it,
Shrewish.
Richard Nixon is lost here
in the one place he is understood.
Nervous, neurotic, sweating,
his clammy hands bustling
out of the pockets
of his ill fitting trousers.
He should have been born
into Hassidic robes
that we might love him less.
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