The President
There is a moment, a small moment,
between when the President wakes up
and when he realizes that he is, in fact,
the President. An immediately forgotten
instant in which he does not yet know
his name, or where he is, or the year:
just a second when the most powerful
man in the world could be anyone at all.

It's that moment that's plastered on her
eyes when I catch her off guard, speak
her name while she's writing or zoning
elsewhere. She looks up in a quick jerk,
liquescent grey eyes go wide, her face
impassive and radiating possibility, like
a misshapen puppet expecting someone
to pick up the strings at any moment and
say 'well, this is the play, here's your part.'

I will not tell her that I look to her for me.
One day, we'll have a daughter, who will
ask if she can be anything in that eager
over-ripe future of children. Yes, I'll say,
even the President! It's a lie, of course,
but might contain something more real
than the truth.