Dreams of a Leader
Rushmore! Whole head. Carved – chiseled –
jackhammered into the cliff face out there
in one of those Dakotas — North, South,
take your pick, the rat-a-tat drill chatter
going on twenty-four seven. Let the rock
chips falls where they may, until – look!
there it is, the whole head, chin stuck
out like Benito on a balcony, eyes narrowed
to vision slits on a sixty-ton Bradley tank.
Well, sure. TR had to go. And no great loss.
Presidents look stupid wearing glasses.
Anyway, no room for second-raters.
Just the four of us up there now. Four.
Maybe one too many? Maybe Jefferson
could go? If I could only get rid of Jeff.
