Dick Cheney Memorial Slum

I couldn't hear the Mayakovsky Tree through shut windows.

The penitential rites of late winter, the rosy pulp of Science Diet Senior Formula Lamb and Rice stuck in soft spots between mouth and belly. The closet drowsy, dull.

I licked my belly in the Dick Cheney Memorial Slum, the corner of the closet behind Tony's large shoes.

The Vice-President of the War on Terror lounged, flush and consumptive, on a pile of old coins.

Is there a furry space between tongue and gloam where half-digested tuna flecks hide?

Are they gone yet, Shimmy? His thin lips delirious. And chins wagged like rank dog tails.

"How can I help you, Vice-President of the War on Terror? It's your slum, not mine. Who are you afraid of?"

The soldiers in dark glasses and eye patches. The daredevils and pirates who rumbled the Walter Reed Army Hospital catacombs with mold and mice and rats and lice.

"I listened to the testimony as I slept under the ottoman, Vice-President of the War on Terror. Our soldiers want to know why you didn't just shoot them on their way out of Iraq -- when you didn't need them anymore."

He squatted on his foul, smutty haunches.

"You live in the far-flung steps of underground bunkers," I continued, "and detest your own troops. You've disappointed them."

I can't do it alone, Shimmy. My pockets aren't big enough. Once upon a time, the White House respected its troops. The soldier persists in the belief that he is lucky to be there. But he arrived too late.