Friday, November 5, 2010

Stuff to do this morning, so I'll be brief. But I thought you might be amused by this poem I'd forgotten I'd written. The Poets Against War website featured it about eight years ago (with strange lineation), even before I brought out my first book. Otherwise, it's never been reprinted or collected, and probably doesn't deserve to be. But it has its funny moments (if you can pardon the strange box and the non-matching type: Blogger insists on them).

Buried Alive with George W. Bush

Dawn Potter


After we cry a little more, he passes

his flask of scotch. I say,

I've heard Dick Cheney is a hologram;

and we chuckle a bit

just to kill time. Probably the miners

trapped in their cave felt like this

when the other guys ran out of things

to talk about and the only sound

left was dripping water and strange echoes

of ogres or the sea. What poems

do I know that would cheer him up, poor

man, with "Take Me Out to the Ballgame"

the only tune he can recall? The acoustics

of caves are almost worth the trip.

He's as good as Pavarotti down here,

and more generous with the drink

than you'd expect, but who knows how much

he's been sipping in-between times. I try out

"The Owl and the Pussycat," which leads GW

to make a well-known off-color joke

under his breath. Chalk it up to his essential self;

and even though I'd like to give him

the benefit of the doubt, he's probably having

similar thoughts about me, such as, What kind

of person recites poems about pussycats

in situations of grave national danger?

If we're rescued, he'll no doubt throw his arm

around my shoulders and do all the talking

to the press about how we kept our spirits up.

If we're not, then who knows

how they'll find us: corpses embraced lovingly

for warmth, or backs turned as we asphyxiate,

composing a series of private lyrics,

little cartoon samples of how

to talk without listening?


1 comment:

Maureen said...

So timely, given the revelations coming out of his new memoir.