He clutched his floating lapels

With feathers at the window.

Downward, he stared at

A myriad of reporters, huddled around

A kneeling Statue of Liberty, decapitated,

Grazing on the White House lawn.



"Mr. President, is it true..."

He is attacked every morning

Before he takes his daily dive from

Washington's Monument.

"Have you nothing to report?"

He retires with to bed.



Wading through the brambles,

Waiting with the feathers at the window,

Like Hannibal leading elephants over the Potomac,

He stares out and down to the right,

Where the children dressed in white are playing,

Then, quickly to the left, where others are dead.



Behind him stands a mercenary,

Rich, with her hands drenched in blood.

She reaches out and taps him on the shoulder.

He whips around, gouges her eyes with a pen,

And returns to his blood-stained desk

To finish his work for the day.



He scratches his forehead,

Wiping the ink and blood from his brow.

The marks remain.

His thought processes wane.

He will not die.

I didn't say, however,

That he would be

Re-elected.