Dead Talking Head Poem by Francis Santaquilani

we don't miss his head.

we don't recall the color of his eyes

or miss his loud neckties,

we don't miss his voice.

we'd usually just turn the sound off.

we're glad to not hear the word 'indeed' anymore.

we mostly think of him now

in terms of what he's missing

and the opinions he's not giving, and sometimes

how it all swirls over him

or through him,

and how tight his lips must be sealed

for him to not report to us on

the flooding in new orleans,

the death of the pope, the price of gasoline

or life after death.