Abe’s Dream

Hell's minor demons

Sweat hot grease

In streams flowing down

Their warty foreheads.

Their double chins.

They bob and smile,

Teeth stained dark as old ivory,

While reaching for knives

Dulled by use.

Their fingers twitch,

Still eager

After eternity

For new acquaintance.

Abe sensed their regard

As he dream-walked

Down the White House stairs

Past burnished brass -

Buttons and buckles -

The sentry’s shell jacket,

Black in the gaslight.

Only the tick of a distant clock

Shivered midnight’s silence

Beside the ebon-draped

Catafalque.

Who lies dead in the White House?

The sentry’s rigid squared shoulders replied:

The President lies here,

The President.

Abe Lincoln noted his soldier’s stern gaze and pondered

Who is just in war?

Who is clean?

Abe Lincoln?

Angels never visit presidents' dreams,

Only meek demons

Smiling.