White House Saddam

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Saddam Huss-
-ssein, for I walked down the side streets by the iron fences
with a migraine self conscious looking at the waning moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and white washed thoughts
I ended up in front of the capital landmark, dreaming of
your atrocious mistakes!
What Sunnis and Shi’ias! Whole fam-
-ilies murdered at night! Rows of dead corpses! Columns of
dirt piled high for wives, babies, husbands! – and you,
Saddam, what were you doing behind closed doors?

I saw you Saddam Hussein, two kids, yet lonely, old
grubber walking around the Oval Office and lifting the
president’s pen to inspect its origin.
I heard you asking questions of each: “Why are women here
not in veils? Which way is towards Mecca? Are you Obama?”
I wandered in and out of the adjoining rooms and walls
following you, and followed in my imagination: a ninja.
You strode down the completed hallways, admiring the portraits
of the farmers, enveloped in the sublimity of their work, never
ending up at the foyer.

Where are you going, Saddam Hussein? The guards are
looking for us. Which way to your executions tonight?
(I though your flag and dream of our odyssey in
the White House and feel contaminated.)
Will we walk all night, through gritty streets?
The trees add shade-to-shade, lamps flicker on and off,
we will both be afraid.
Will we stroll dreaming the lost generations past the
cemeteries in Arlington?
Ah Saddam, you old cock, what did America do to
put you in such a disposition when Leodis Mckelvin
fumbled the ball to give the Patriots the lead?

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