Inthat gray gray room without any windows I asked,
"will they make him amartyr -
you know, write a song about him,
talk about him like somethingchanged because
something was bound to change anyway?"
You laughed butyour eyes shot
spears of something serious into my head -
my ghost headsomewhere in the back of the room
looking at every crack in thefloor.
"I'm serious," I said, "how will we talk about him
ina month when we're blowing people up
in the name of all that isAmerican?"
Don't start with politics, your forehead
shouted throughcareful wrinkles: what do you know anyway?
I could tell you were frustrated,but so was I.