It’s late afternoon,

I’m drinking my tea.

I hear Tucker Carlson

on my TV.

Through the breakfast room window

I see something moving,

and I hear Tucker asking

why I hate Putin.


In the yard,

it’s a rabbit—no, two.

No, it’s four,

four white bunnies

munching on grass.

What’s Putin done to you,

Tucker Carlson asks,

Will Putin raise your taxes

so on and so on, over and over

and the rabbits sit twitching

and nibbling at clover.


Those Democrats, says Tucker,

they're still sore about Clinton.

They blame Putin for that

and the rabbits

are still hopping and nibbling at grass.


Tucker’s still asking

why I hate Putin;

oh gee, I dunno...

Polonium, Politkovskya

let’s start with the P’s

and don’t even mention

Litvinenko to me.

Then there’s Chechnya, Crimea—that’s just the C’s—


And now Russian soldiers

are spreading through Ukraine

like a chemical agent

spreads through the veins.

The Putin machine

is running non-stop

and Vlad marches on

between the raindrops.


The rabbits are still munching

and nibbling on grass,

and Tucker makes fistfuls,

pulling them out of his—hat.


I love bunny rabbits,

brown, black or white;

I love men of courage.

Men who live by the light.

And I hate Vladimir Putin

I hate to admit it

but Tucker is right;

rest in peace, Alexander,

you fought the good fight.


It’s late afternoon.

The TV's still on.

Through the window I see

all the rabbits are gone.

Clouds moving in.

Sky's turning gray—

where will the rabbits

go when it rains—

where are they, I wonder,

as the sky starts to darken,

and why am I watching

that #%$& Tucker Carlson.

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