You're hanging on like Richard Nixon
to the last scraps of night,
to the few remaining shreds

of conscious thought, tattered 
as a flag at full mast in a hurricane.

They want you to resign:
the grumbling fridge, the sallow laptop screen,
the kitchen table wobbly from age,
they've all voted to toss you on your ear.

But something in you is obstinate,
won't let go
of your bone-tired addictions,

clings, half-crazed and tenacious,

to your bloodshot consolations.

Banged-up and woozy, you're in this thing
until you spend the last penny of grudge-fuel,

until you squeeze out every bitter ounce

of executive power,
until you reach the coffee-grounds
at the bottom of the pot.

This isn't your last press conference.

They'll still have you to kick around.