The president sips coffee, all alone
in his white house.
The cameras cannot invade his mind.
He doesn’t understand why some won’t cheer
when he cries war
against the enemies of right and good.
The bombs must fall. The helicopters must
arrive in clusters and conclude their efforts.
We will show real mercy in the end.
We don’t want war, not war exactly,
he explains politely
to the other president who lives inside him.
He adjusts his tie.
We want the terror just to go away.
We are the terror, somebody has said.
How can that be? We’re free and easy.
We have walked our little kids to school.
On Sundays, in the park, we toss the balls.
The president admires the silver spoon
beside his cup.
His room is cool and bright and quiet.
He has been elected, after all.
His body is a powerful machine.
His eyes are steady and his hands are clean.