Dear Mr. President,
I do not appreciate
your presence in my dreams.
Let me not be unclear,
it is one dream,
recurring.
Why do you stand
on my childhood bed beneath
the canopy in your shoes
and dress socks, cowboy
boxers and light blue pressed
shirt, tie loosened and pointing
toward those cowboy
boxers? Why
are you twirling a lasso?
And why is the heat
that I feel upon waking
not angry?
I do not want to imagine
the First Lady on all fours
with your hands around her waist,
that low
part before it can be called
hip, pursuing the best
angle. Her face pushed between
pillows, she is not a part of this.
You tilt and slam
and feel like a cowboy.
Is it because I
have never been good
at distinguishing
authority from sexy?
I doubt that the answer lies
behind your simian smirk
or simian sentences, but
who else am I
to ask?