A red spike heel shoe
dangles, as bait, from my big toe
and a warm mist, like you see
out on the Beeline Highway midsummer,
rises from Bush's bare freckled back,
as he moans his way down
one black-stockinged leg.

George likes to come in my shoe, you see.

It's okay by me.
No condoms involved.
I can watch tv
Do my nails
Fiddle with my hair.
Once, I even read a short book.

I get two thousand bucks
when he's through, plus
another pair of expensive
Saks Fifth Avenue red shoes.

Over George's shoulder, an old lady
in Texas is saying she thinks Bush
is the greatest and those people in Iraq 
should be more grateful, too.

I think only of how Iraq is so like my shoe-
red from spilled blood
red from shared shame
already filled with too many byproducts
from George's intrusive stick.

I wonder what that sweet lady
would say if she saw the video
I'm making to raffle to the loudest
most rat-mouthed reporters in town.

I imagine spike heel filled bonfires
and females striding barefooted to cast
their vote elsewhere in the upcoming year's polls.
I see blood washed away and brother
forgiving brother in this bigger fetish called war.

Pris Campbell
©2004

Published in the July/August 2004 Issue of Niederngasse Journal


Art: Art and artist unknown. Found on E-bay.

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