The Politician Poem

A disgusting hot day
in Washington
(should be cooler in October)
and I've never felt more like
me
than right here.
I shut the curtains
and let my amber eyes,
marrow,
turn to liquid mint jelly on the mute
stifling
oak desk in front of me.
I chew on my red ball point pen,
Try to write policy.
It's the aloneness;
Unbearable-
Squeezing me past the point
Where my blood runs warm.
I need millions around me.
I know nothing more than
you or you or you
running amuck, chopped celery
celebrated as the garnish of the living.
I've found my way
With words, is all. Somehow out
Of the empty scratches
in my throat
Sentences formed and flowered like
root.
I clutch the Rice Crispy Squares
and orange lilies like little spades
that dig up grief.
My ball point pen drops.
I don't reach down on the floor
to get it.
My husband is dead, but
it's the you and you and you
Who I love.
I bite into a stale Rice Crispy Square
and inhale the smell of lilies.
No one ever comes in here.
Without knocking first.