I am Kennedy’s head

I am Kennedy's head
wherever I go the day is the same
the same hot Dallas wind blows through my head
swaying my me-meat as it passes. Things end swiftly.
The choking, the grabbing of my throat,
the glamorous debutante scrambling over the seat.
Honking hurts. Cheering's worse and then the posers
who look for me on everything. Boulevards, airports
and even the dollar. But touch football
bends my mast and You go everywhere
using my name, studying the way my untucked shirt
blew lyrically in the wind on the Cape.
You can hide Kennedy's head behind Your cereal box
or a toaster oven, but it still talks. The voice's
            all-fours quality clack-clacks
                        a newsroom song. A blister
   on the wind like an old tune:
            The World Turned Upside Down.
The first salvo of the immortal British Invasion
            when the fab moptops were powder white
                        and Georgy crossed the Mersey to catch
     the disciplined casks of beef and beer,
     the snoring Hessians. What dreams, one wonders,
were theirs then. German superiority asleep in Trenton
     as the great unwashed ruined their shivering tranquility.
Mr. Schnelling meet Louis.