The Son of a Bitch of Hope After

Steve Davenport

The Son of a Bitch of Hope ate

on and off the table, ate

the table, ate the chairs, ate

the keys out the locks, ate

every flag he passed, every

toppled statue, gobbled bits

of history sloshed and storied

in their juices, drained

the bottle, then another, burped,

and sucked the long worm

from the bottom, or the top

given how he tilted it

toward the sun like a scope.

He didn’t eat the sun.

After a nap, the Son of a Bitch

of Hope pulled out his mat,

breathed ocean, hummed

fire, stretched cobra, stretched

locust, snacked on a charm

of hummingbirds, then ate

the rabbit holes that ate

his friends, then ate

his friends.