. The Reagan with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe Once upon a long and weary voting day with chances dreary for a quaint and curious choice, a nominee we all adore; while I gauged the sense of voting, suddenly I heard some gloating as of someone sugarcoating memories of years before. "'Tis some candidate," I muttered, "ill-informed with good rapport--- only this, and nothing more." Ah distinctly I remember, 'twas a leap year in November, every Senate member had a hundred lobbyists or more. Earnestly I wished for fairness, recognizing all the rareness of the public welcoming purveyors of enlightened lore--- condescending to the noble precepts of enlightened lore: here, then gone forevermore. Now I heard this faint intoning, not unlike a distant moaning, near the bust of Adam Smith above the Senate's chamber door. Grave concern about tomorrow seemed to frame these sounds of sorrow, sorrow that we haven't known since choosing sides with Bush and Gore--- sorrow like a candidate who'd never lost the vote before--- sorrow like a lost l'amour. Heart of mine now all aflutter, hurried I to raise the shutter--- there appeared an old acquaintance in his saintly guise of yore. Ghostly, gaunt, and ancient fellow, wrinkled, cheeky, pink and mellow, Mister Reagan, ever tasteful, decked out with a pompadour--- speaking with the flourish of the surf on California's shore: Quoth the Reagan, "Tax no more... "...Minimize the legislation, put an end to regulation, give big business all it wants, then turn around and give it more." Nothing further did he utter in his Presidential stutter, not the least obeisance would betray his movie star decor, glowing like a quote from Milton Friedman on the Senate door, "Laissez-faire and nothing more." Then the Gipper, ever smiling, ever skillfully beguiling all my fluster into words to counteract his charm galore: "Mister Reagan, let me state this: didn't you anticipate this? Now the wealth is concentrated, nothing's left to bargain for. Is there any balm on Main Street---tell me, tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Reagan, "Nevermore." There he dallied, never leaving, still deceiving, always peeving those who'd rather choose the bust of FDR to stand before. "Wretch!" said I, "Your regal leaning surely was devoid of meaning--- still, it seems the Seraphim is on your side forevermore." All my hopes for equal incomes, lying on the Senate floor, shall be lifted nevermore! . . Paul Buchheit is an author of books, poems, progressive essays, and scientific journal articles. He recently completed his first historical novel, 1871: Rivers on Fire. His poetry has appeared in The Lyric, Illinois State Poetry Society, Poets & Patrons of Chicagoland, Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest, Society of Classical Poets, and other publications.