I wonder about the women who had
made love to Richard Nixon. What
did they smell like? Lemon drops
and powder? Did they make him sweat?
How did they win him? With a thermos
of soup? A long suggestive stare?
A demure glance? Or did he seduce them
with his dark, dark hair, his lawyer’s suit?
Or was it his eyes, dark and weary? Did
they seek to save him from himself,
salve him somehow, these women?
What did they think during Watergate?
Did they long for him again, yearn to hide
him somewhere dark and warm? And
how do they feel when we think of him?