I wrote this poem right after September 11, but thought I would post it today,
because George W. Bush was scheduled to speak at the Republican National Convention.

I Dream of George W
.

In Egypt at the foot of the Sphinx.
Vast expanse of desert and dunes.
In the far distance, office towers,
the skyline of some city of over a million.
As I move along with my tour group,
a projectile whistles past my ear.
The skyscrapers vanish, and in their place,
a mushroom cloud and flames.
Another explosion flattens the rest of the city.
Nothing is left. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Later. another dream.

George W. Bush has come for dinner.
He will only eat a certain kind of potato
and when I fix it he winks at me.
I feel like France during the second world war.
Mostly I want to eat drink and be merry,
might take up cigarettes again to help me face the firing squad.
Will I be killed for something the military
did over which I had no control?
How many more Iraquis will die for something
in my name? Will today be the last day
of my life?

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About Patricia Markert

Moviegoer.
This entry was posted in George W. Bush, poetry, war. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to

  1. Rethabile says:

    I hope not, because I’d love to read a lot more of your poetry.

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