Dinner with Lincoln


They said I could sit down to dinner with whomever I pleased
(they were the type of Spirits who said “whom”).
Having never been asked such a ludicrous question
I panicked and made a hasty selection.
I picked a rather obvious figure.
“I will dine with Abraham Lincoln.”

I wasn’t a Civil War buff or a particular fan
of the Department of Agriculture.
So I had to strategize about topics to cover,
the Thirteen Amendment or Our American Cousin,
Or maybe I could discuss the finer points of
rail-splitin’.

But where shall we break bread?

I selected a busy Red Robin on a Friday night
because I wanted everyone to see that I
Was talking to the President, and thus very important.
On-lookers would wave smart phones in blistering torrent,
Snapping selfies with me and the Prez.

I sat down early and ordered a Sam Adams
Just in case the conversation lulled
(I thought he’d probably get a kick out of that).

Here’s what they don’t tell you though:
When the Spirits resurrect someone who’s been gone for 150 years
It’s just “As Is.”
There’s no clean up involved.
They don’t dust the person off
Or brush their dead teeth
Or smack a new layer
Of skin on like they do in the movies.

So now I’m sitting here, trying to listen
To Honest Abe drone on about war strategy.
When a moment ago, the last piece of his decayed earlobe
Fell right into our plate of boneless chicken wings.

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