As one says of a figure that everyone knows,
this poem needs no introduction.
That would be the right poem, however.
"Establishment."
Death had established himself in the red room.
The White House, having become his natural abode,
chalk white facade, pillars like the bones of extinct empires,
armed men crawling its halls or looking down with suspicion
from its roof.
Its immense luxury, thick carpets,
its plush velvet chairs, the secret stash of McDonald's.
All of this made death comfortable, bony as he is.
A fact you'd hardly notice.
His camouflage, a veil of flesh drawn over him.
His tailor, so adroit.
And he's so elegant, so GQ, almost a dandy.
So suited for the tables where the crystal silverware,
the swans of ice gleamed with the polished purity of light
on precious things.
Death was the guest of honor here.
Confining, convivial, among friends,
who leaned to light his cigar.
His power seemed their own.
Body counts at their command, a power
beyond even their boy wet dreams,
was now a custom they feared to lose.
Each saw the world the way a hooded falcon on the fist
sees it.
Blind, waiting for the next release.
One word could bury villages alive,
could send battalions to an early grave.
So death can rest assured, smiling at such a harvest,
and so deliciously unseasonable, like berries in winter.
Welcome, house guest.
He stretches his ancient frame, warm under expensive wool,
sipping wine, picking his teeth with the last bone.
Meat all the sweeter for being the lambs of honor.
Corn-fed and unsuspecting, or the children
playing in the rubble, who reach down
for a souvenir of steel that has fallen from the sky.
Really death has seldom had a better season,
or such a winning score.
He must see to their protection, these little men who
think to be his master.
Flatter a fool and make him useful,
he thinks, and smiles benignly, widely, at his hosts,
assuring them of his gratitude, his presence at their councils,
his everlasting support, until no longer able
to hide his triumph, his delight,
forgetting the flesh he has clothed himself
in for the occasion.
He rubs his hands together in the ancient gesture
of satisfaction.
Naked bone on bone, how the sound grates,
how the grateful sparks fly.