The President
appears in my dream
attending the summer camp
where I am a counselor,
his all-too-well-known smirk
intent over square knots
lashings
boondoggles.
Under pine shade or pinyon
he’s pouring powdered juice
secure as an earnest prince.
In the heat of the afternoon
he slides down
the chute of a creek
humped with turtlebacks
water eddying over his denim knees.
This is my least favorite President.
He’s taken my country
to some faraway planet
where I cannot breathe
the atmosphere.
And I am suddenly furious
that his face is everywhere
his glancing eyes
his tell-tale shrug
ubiquitous on screens,
on airwaves, newspapers,
longhorning into my brain
into my thoughts
into my peaceful
All-American
dragonfly darting
sleepy memory of
summer camp dream.
