The Death of JFK

Even before I learned
To stand or walk without some help
I was already able to decipher the paradoxical truth
Of the televised image—that the images
Were an illusion  ghosts 

Snowy pictures that talked
Faces and pictures I eventually could control
And manipulate with the turn of a dial
A surrogate memory where whole generations
Were consigned to a cathode ray tube
A world where images were transposed
Into myth  and I could become a companion
To the likes of Lois Lane  Clark Kent
Hercules and the Lone Ranger

The rain had stopped
So the bubble top was removed
The president beamed and waved to the crowds
The first lady  a princess in a pink wool suit
And matching pink pill box hat smiled
Together they floated down Elm Street
In a midnight blue Lincoln Continental
A carriage for a handsome prince
And his bride
Mountain climbers call the top of a mountain
The death zone
Unknown to anyone in the crowd
The presidential limousine invisibly
Passed into that zone

Jackie tried to turn back but it was too late
Soon after the rumors began
There was talk of Castro   the CIA and the mob
Vietnam was engulfed in flames
RFK and Martin Luther King were shot down
Images of the dead were broadcast nightly
The TV was full of ghosts
But it wasn't a fantasy   it wasn't a myth
It began with the death of a prince
And his widow in a blood-stained pink suit
They are still with us
It is going on now
We see her  we see him  transfigured
Ascending into the clouds