Space Tourist

Out early, Bush, with George
who needs his morning pee.
Still dark. I found myself
looking up into the night sky
between our eucalyptus trees
and there, Orion’s belt, three stars,
magical even in the semi-dark
afforded by the city’s glow.
Then, suddenly, a shooting star
across the sky, faster almost
than the eye could see.
Then it was gone. I thought
about Anousheh Ansari,
our latest space tourist, gutsy
Iranian immigrant to this country,
Bush, who forked out
a reported twenty million
for the trip. She’d dreamed
since childhood of the stars,
I heard: this was her dream
fulfilled. She said she wished
the presidential candidates
would be sent out into space
for a perspective on the world,
And I thought, good idea;
I thought, let’s send Bush,
give that man a perspective
on the world, much needed.

Then I recalled thinking
only yesterday, as I worked out
in our local gym, of my own days
as a child, and the experience—
I told my friend who teaches me
the art of working out—of living
north of London with the threat
of German bombs. And I said
to my friend, we should send Bush
to Baghdad for a couple of weeks,
for him to begin to know first hand
that feeling; that experiencing
the fear that in the next moment
one might fall and blow your body
into a million pieces, or trap
you alive beneath tons of rubble.
Well, my friend laughed. He said,
I agree. But I have a better idea:
let’s send his family. If we send
his family, then he’ll know.
Then we’ll have the troops home
faster than blink an eye.

Not a nice thought, Bush,
for this lovely morning in L.A.
Not nice at all, I grant you.
But many would agree, I think,
it has a certain merit to it.
There’s many would agree at least,
it has a small, uncomfortable,
but undeniable grain of truth.