The Congressman’s Daughter
It was the war that killed him –
not the golf trip, the cruise;
fruits from the farthest limb
of scandal, too small
even for the unreasonable
prosecutor – only
the war. (And –
though he will not yet say it,
even in his most obfuscating drawl –
the president.)
His wife has flown home
to “open up the house,” to appear
as if in triumph, in banks of flowers,
at meetings; to care
for the press and her mother.
In his last chauffeured ride,
he must pick up his daughter
from her private school in Northwest.
The camera smile, the guileless
light of assured redemption
do not leave his face
as the limo turns
from the black zone north of the Capitol.
He will wear them at meetings,
in church, at his firm,
“mending fences,” in
a few weeks when the next campaign begins,
and for the headmistress
of his daughter’s school,
discussing how well she has done.
As the limo parks, he sees his daughter
standing with friends
in a small bare garden
or play area. She is laughing and,
though bundled against the cold,
dancing – slight shuffling steps,
forward, sideways,
describing a blocky circle, and he thinks
how stupid she looks.
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