Qaddafi’s Granddaughter

Soon after bombs stop plunging
from the sky over Tripoli,
I invade the “Mommy and Me Class”
at the pool. A storm broods.
Lightning slithers through murky clouds.
The chance that swerved
the bird of artillery that killed
the general’s baby granddaughter
threatens to march us to the break room
for a politically warped safety video
in which Longfellow, a cartoon whale
in Florence Nightingale bonnet,
warns the only black kid
in a gang of white kids about sunburn.
Our sleek teen teacher bobs
in a cheerless hub of eight tubby moms
and girlies in peppermint suits.
My son and I, lone males, hide
the distant dreams of deposed kings
behind the forged passports
of our smiles. The hypocritical adults sing,
“If You’re Happy and You Know It,”
paddling hands and feet of rebel kids.
Each turn of the matriarchal wheel
sends looks of ethnic cleansing
in my direction. Who can splash off
the stain of not belonging?
What dark weather decreed us
too heavy for this year’s styles?
What tyranny snares me in the whirlpool
of fatherhood? My son, pure Viking,
hair as white as Arctic sun,
innocent eyes of fierce democratic blue,
senses the change in regimes
as we slip into The Lazy River.
Under guard of a goofy fiberglass moose,
I learn I must dunk him three times,
loving him more each time he comes up
screaming murder at this world
in which every small life matters
as long as the newest circle of leaders
obeys the command to drown its hearts
and immerse the young in the lessons of dying.