Vox Populi
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Judson Mitcham: Poison
Apparently, he doesn’t drink, but he might be
the drunkest man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen
knee-walking, loud obnoxious slobs
who soil their suit pants, puke on their shoes,
lose their balance, then fall face down
on the marble floor and bloody their sneers.
But what’s his poison? It’s the vodka, the clear
elixir of the mirror, chased with shots
of moonshine from the TV screen, and when
he holds up his dainty little zero, you know
exactly who he is: he’s the blowhard at the bar.
But it’s too late now. We are riding in his car,
and he’s three sheets to the nuclear wind,
he’s roaring drunk on the con that he ran
to put us where we are–out in strange country,
God knows where–and he’s honking his horn,
honking his horn, he’s got his foot to the floor,
and he’s looking in the mirror at his hair.
~~~~
Copyright 2025 Judson Mitcham
Mitcham studied psychology at University of Georgia, and he taught psychology at Fort Valley State University until his retirement in 2004. His many books include A Little Salvation: Poems Old and New. He lives in Macon, Georgia.
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PERFECTION!!!
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It really is perfect. Thank you for saying so.
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I wonder how much Putin is paying him to destroy America?
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OMG, what a poem. Yes, he’s honking, honking, his foot flooring the acceleration and looking at his beautiful hair, taking us where? Even he doesn’t know. He’s too drunk on his own power. Thank you for this. It’s perfect!
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Judson nails it, doesn’t he?
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WOW!
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Writing your memoir does that.
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I remember adolescence in cars with wasted drivers. Then I felt fear, but also thought I was indestructible. Now the car is the world and age has brought understanding of the permanence that can accompany mistakes and wrong turns. In our family, this old woman has instituted a policy of youngest over 25 drives, but I fear I was overruled when our country crowded into a recalled Tesla truck and some other old coots handed crazy grandpa the keys.
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I can sense the panic in the final line of this brilliant poem. A panic I share, because the poem is oh, too true. As Sean Sexton writes, with his usual eloquence: the poem lends pleasure as it scares me to death.
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Panic is a reasonable response to fascism.
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Eloquent, insightful, timely poem. It is consoling, to feel that there are others out there who are feeling what I feel, and doing something so useful with it and with such skill. Thank you, Judson.
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Great poem and, sadly, so true. Yes, he is a total embarrassment, but even more shameful is the flock of lackies that escort him, holding their personal makeup mirrors up so he can constantly see himself.
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I agree, Leo. We are seeing a dysfunctional personality at the helm.
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I’m so ready to receive and compliment anything written by this poet whom I adore and have read for years. Just to see the recent date of the poem is a pleasure, and then there’s the concision of irony, craft, psychology, and context that lends pleasure as it scares me to death.
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Thanks, Sean. I’ve admired Judson’s poems for a long time, and I’m glad to be able to publish his work again.
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I’ve been both the offender and the passenger. Terrific poem.
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Yes, I’m writing my memoirs now, so I’m very aware of my many offenses.
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