to George they dash-
42 men whose birthdates,
VPs and spouses they rattle off
nightly in the bath. Hour
number two: my arms

sweat under sloughed jackets
while Tyler's veins simmer
blue comfort, Pierce grits
his handsome despair, Lincoln
scans shadow floorboards

and Grant grins, sober
at last. Plush drapes
and lit wick, mobs a distant
whine, our leaders stared for
you, American master,

French taught-both painter
and canvas. More powerful men
than any throne can claim leaned
toward your trenchant
brush. What made them

crave your hands and creased
brow? How did you hold
their heat, crushing
size? Why did they freeze-
save for a lone hair ticking

in the draft, or paper, thumb-loosed?
I cannot save this
for when my sons are known
by life or tales
of men rounded

into bunkers of soot and orange
ash-blackened beds,
of brothers clashing like
lions, ground
split into blue and grey

and red, while you
softly mixed
brown and white.
If I were like you, I
could study their faces