About That Interview...

... on 60 Minutes, Bush. I watched. I noted that folksy humor, that attempt at down home, plain-thinking realism. "I'm a flexible, open-minded person," I heard you say. And I'm sure that's how you think about yourself. I also heard you say: "I'm not going to change my princples," for the sake of popularity. "My spirits are strong and I'm blessed to be the President." It's we out here, Bush, who feel less than blessed to have you as the "President." I watched your Rice. I shuddered every time I heard her say, "The President thinks... the President believes..." The mistakes you could acknowledge: Abu Ghraib, and "Bring 'em on!" Oh, and just possibly, too few troops on the ground. The troop levels "could have been a mistake."

And now we've gone beyond the Decider and the Commander in Chief. We're now the "Educator in Chief." Well, that's a laugh, Bush. That's a laugh. Have you ever tried teaching in a classroom where not a single kid is listening to what you say and they're all busy throwing paper pellets at each other? Well, I have. I was a lousy teacher, back when I was young. I know just exactly what it feels like. If it doesn't feel a little like that to you, Bush, at this very moment, all I can say is, well, you're just not listening. Again.

Anyway, I woke with this dream/poem. It's called



ALL POLITICS (IS PERSONAL)

I had this dream,
that I was lost
and late, and hurrying
in a city at once
foreign and familiar,
through white tiled
corridors toward
some unknown
destination. And at
some point I knew
I should turn left
toward downtown,
but saw, on the steps
in front of me, to
the right, a woman
in Muslim garb, who
tripped and fell,
rolling and bumping
down a steep flight
to the next level
down. I should,
I knew, just hurry on
to make my meeting
but some instinct
made me pause, and
change my mind, and
take that other flight
of steps to where
she lay, crumpled
and weeping on
the concrete floor.
That Muslim garb, I
dreamed, was somehow
less severe, I noticed
now, than I had thought,
softer, more giving,
warmer to the touch;
and the woman, too,
more womanly, more
sensual, even, her eyes
quite lovely in their
woundedness. I held
her, asking whether
she had broken any
bones, but she said,
No, testing them,
nothing, she thought
but scrapes and grazes.
The dream ended
without my knowing
who she was, of what
became of her; or of
the meeting I had
missed; but rather
with the memory of
the warmth of simple
human contact and this
recurring thought: all
politics is personal.