Brake my white truck, one night. Open my door for Richard Nixon. Driving through the gray dark, I watch him from the edges of my eyes. Richard Nixon looks fine in person. His skin is very soft and clean. He nods graciously, Neck angling toward the gearshift, A silken brow, white As the moon. I think it might be best, It might, To bring him home. Don’t drop him off out here Where the wild animals bite. I think it might be better To bring him home. A hot meal first, Then put him straight to bed With two pillows. And what should he read? He’ll fall asleep over his book, to the Clank Of big, dumb bugs against his screen, The dust of moths On his lamp. And, tiptoeing upstairs To listen, I’ll hear The delicate snore of Richard Nixon.