On a date with the Attorney General of the United States:
it’s almost over. We are dressed in our evening clothes
upstairs in a four-poster canopied bed on one of many estates
she owns. The evening was pleasant enough, goodness knows;
she flew me to dinner, I listened to her talk about her work
and the state of the union, we waltzed (she stepped on my toes).
Now she is talking about arresting some lowly filing clerk;
my hand is falling asleep. I am startled to hear a noise
come from the kitchen below. The AG sits up with a jerk,
reaches into her nightstand, hands me a gun – a light comfy Sig Sauer –
tells me to go see what’s going on – a little push – down the stairs –
she’ll be right after me. My mouth tastes metal bitter and sour.
I tiptoe in white sock feet in the dark, avoiding overstuffed chairs.
A peek in the kitchen where a squat hairy man dances with wooden spoons,
beats on the hanging pots and pans. What a strange state of affairs –
will he kill me, or worse, will he mock me? I hear merry chaotic tunes
and set the gun down on the granite counter. After all he is wearing roller skates,
an appliquéd and embroidered red tea towel, bottomed by burlap pantaloons.
He prances up to me. We smooch, then caper out all five steel security gates.