Last night struggling through a downpour,
dead people rained in my mind, bodies I had hovered
over as E.M.T. protecting them from mundane rites
of doctors and police officers debating bmw’s and jaguars.
A hunched woman knocked me with her cane
and whispered, “Angel, Angel” and pointed
at store mannequins with half a head, only up to the nose
like some politicians I know. I was heading to my new job,
Operation Alternative for homeless people and I wondered:
What if George Bush walked in naked and hungry,
down and out after post-2004 elections? What if Ramal
said to me “He’s yours”? And what if I gave George a terry cloth
housecoat that said “anarchist antichrist” in big black letters
on the back and sent him with corn chips to the end
of the line? What if one of the fire breathing clients,
spat on George and stole his bourbon bottle?
Or what if the clients complained that he smelled
worse than newly polluted Texas? But what if George
complained that he was surrounded by dirty criminals?
“Just like the White House Mr. Bush,” I’d say.
What if I asked him for ID and he handed me his insider
trading papers? What if I pushed the black emergency button
behind the plexiglass and twenty cops came charging in
and jumped on and arrested the anarchist-cloaked George
for hiding a bottle? Poor dyslexic Prez. Oh Homeless Oh Inmates:
It’s just a stormy prophecy, I mumbled, wishing this were
a gay city where Mumia Abu-Jamal is honorary citizen
and where multi-parties and anarchists can be
and where a patriot act is a poet speaking for rights
of Guantanamo detainees and Geneva not Republican
Conventions. I was following blurry city lights
to Operation Alternative where I opened the door on a dozen
longing eyes who welcomed my dripping face out of the rain.