The Art of The Deal
He comes to the table — Oval and white
He is not wearing a suit
nor does he have the cards
Poker faces, shining with eggs and ham
and placid with fable lullabies
stare him down
His speckled-with gun powder-gaunt skin does not flinch
He sits. Dead soldiers on his shoulders
and abducted children in his arms
They sit in the lap of a deal
cameras rolling on their ego’s scheme
He spatters the facts, and it dampens the air
Poker faces don’t get wet
only their tongues
How dare he, not kneel
before the kings’ crowns
How dare he, not cheer and clap
for the offering of their masterpiece
For how long can he parade the truth —
walk her naked around the room
before the card dealer stone her alive?
No poker face
No, he did not learn it yet
Rifles in his lids
Drones in his eyes
And on his lips unfurls
soaked-with-blood land
Why don’t you wear a suit, Mister?
Do you have a suit, Mister?
Churchill fidgets in his grave
** “We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filed with straw. Alas!”
** T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men.
