Reviewing the Troops in the Ruins

Usually no one famous shows up
in my dreams, but this time President Bush
appears, his blue eyes surprising.
We are walking through a stone arch
into a rally where he is
unwelcome. Ugly murmurs.
‘‘They don’t get it,’’ he turns to me,
‘‘all the hard work we do.’’

To cheer him up I tell a joke
about my dog dragging in
parts of a bird and then puking
the rest on the kitchen tile.
‘‘I will gladly identify
the species,’’ I tell him
I told my wife, ‘‘if you’ll collect
the bones and feathers.’’

He laughs in appreciation,
his estimate of me risen.
He asks me to sit next to him
on the reviewing stand, next
to the woman with knees sharp
as the corners of boxes who wears
a dark suit Hepburn wore
as Holly Golightly. She sneers.

Some soldiers and some time
and some weapons go by.
It’s not getting any easier.
Boos and catcalls. A shuffle
and ruckus in the bleachers.
The point is: I like him
his eyes not at all what
I imagined. It’s time to leave

and quickly, his agents say. It’s no good
being out in the open like this.
And we are. I look around and note
we are under the stars at Tikal,
steps crumbling into the hillside.
When I look back, the President is gone
with all the rest. The crowd mutters, blood
thrumming in the ear, this theater in ruins.