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?