I am Pol Pot’s mother. He comes over for lunch.
I give him some kind of chicken.
Tell him to sit up straight. Chide him
for not visiting more often. I bet Hitler
found time to visit his mother every week,
and he killed way more people than you have.
Mothers, eh Pol. May I call you Pol? If not,
I’ll call you Pot, or just dead. But dude:
doesn’t dictator sound as if it should be spelled
d-i-c-k-t-a-t-e-r? Yes, I’m calling you an asshole potato.
And isn’t the power of language amazing
when it comes to changing nothing?
Can’t change a light bulb or sheets.
I love going to bed on or with clean sheets.
It’s as if I’ve been reborn. Like I’m some kind of Phoenix
or Tucson, a western city where it doesn’t get dark
until three hours later than it gets dark here.
Not sure what time zones have to do with murderous thugs,
though wouldn’t that make a great name
for a football team? Who’d ever want to play
the Murderous Thugs? Probably the Sadistic Crocodiles.
Whatever. Let’s cram all the dictators, past, present,
and future, into a locker and wait for evil
to devour itself. Evil. Tastes like chicken.
Only because everything does. Especially chicken.