An editor with whom I worked
always talked about the rags
he wrote for
with a sort of defiant pride.

They may have just barely survived,
but he was around to nurture them
and sip from amber memories
every time
he coached us fledglings
to kill our babies.

I watched
as my own stories
gushed my mentor’s resources
and embarrassed my conscience
in the week’s mail.

Now that we have fake news,
the yellow journalism of the Gilded Age
wears its mustiness
as a peculiar base note
for a world that views war as a movie
and calls “hanging out” sex.

The testimony of other men’s daughters
papers the walls of politicians,
and academics flog their credentials
to distance themselves
in flight plans.

The Yellow Kid poses
in front of a hotel
he’s just named
for himself.