Writing Group

There were eight of us at TIAPOS. Above are Olivia (in fur coat), Jane, Eric, Doug, and Will.

Here's a special treat. This is the poem Will brought, and he read it in Nixon's voice:

NIXON IN HEAVEN

I can still smell the lilies at the funeral––lush, sweet,
abundant, the scent swirling in among the pops
of the twenty-one gun salute, all those fine
young marines in white gloves––and the eulogies to me,
a statesman. That’s all I ever really wanted.

Now I’m pretty much an unknown--surprised, really,
to be here at all, but it’s not as if they’ve put me in charge
of anything, though I did submit one request to oversee
surveillance. I’m in a little shack at The Outskirts––
that’s what they call it, it’s a big, lonely district––

and I’ve got a piano. I’m learning Hail to the Chief,
some variations I’m working up myself.
Liberace comes by to help me with my technique.
He wears tails that light up like the stars and bars
and tells me soon I’ll be ready for the dancing waters.

Pat stops by too--part of her therapy, I gather.
She swears a blue streak, calls me a son of a bitch
and a miserable cocksucker, then grins and pinches my cheek.
Then she slams the door so hard the roof wobbles
and floats off with the most endearing spring in her step.

Will Walker