one minute and I have the thought
                that I should write a long poem about
                of all people,
                Robert Gipe.

                Robert Gipe asked  me if I ever felt guilty
                about the things I did for the government.
                I told him that the very thought of
                doing those things again
                fills me with anticipation,
                my feelings hone for flight or fight.

                I do not tell him I have a reputation
                in my rural community, agricultural,
                impoverished. One man calls me
                a local legend while others assume
                I am a good educator, a good man,
                an honest man, dishonest in my own words,
                but a family man, a father loved by his children.

                Robert wanted to know if I justified
                what I did because I felt as though
                what I did was done because my
                President asked me to go out
                into the world and help him
                make a difference.

                I tell Robert that the Man trusted me.
                I don’t tell Robert that I never betrayed
                that trust.
                Robert wanted to know if I was a Republican.
                I tell him not to hold it against me.
                He said he did not,

                Robert told me how much better
                my wild story would be
                if I were a Democrat
                working for a Republican President.
                I toyed with that plot line,
                Robert being the author that he was.
            
                Instead, I begin to write a poem
                about Ange, a woman whose beauty
                has not given in to life’s pull–=
                has not given up the elasticity 
                in her neck, a woman whose legs,
                legs of a runner have not lost their rhythm,
                have not lost their toned calves…

                Robert has gone to his room to sleep
                at 32 minutes past midnight.
                I begin to write Ange across the page
                and down.
                My hope is that she will read the words
                after drinking two vodka and cranberry
                on ice to relieve her stress…