Poetry, Vol. 3.1, March 2009
This set contains a grassy knoll.
A book depository, ten motorcycle cops.
One governor, a limo driver, and citizen-spectators.
You can play with a single loony assassin
or several in any combination:
Cuban, Sicilian, Russian, or federal.
There is no blood.
All figures are silent as the President’s head
snaps back, the wind-up First Lady
crawls out of the backseat.
She keeps her balance on the shiny trunk,
not even tipping her pillbox hat.
You can re-enact this for hours.
It never gets dull
if you dream of back-story:
warm afternoons on the yacht, Honey Fitz,
that girl at the Sands lounge, dark lashes,
the awful grace described by Aeschylus.