Maybe if I can get him
they’ll elect me Pope.
I know I could do it;
I look good in robes.
I wouldn’t be evil,
like those of the Crusades.
I wouldn’t be at all
like that really cruel Pope
in Return of the Jedi,
old man with lightning bolts
and crinkled face.
I’d be the people’s Pope,
make sure there were always plenty of sweets.
In dreams, sometimes, I see myself
stalking the long staircase
that ascends to his bedroom,
past laser sensors,
and guards with crossed Uzis.
I see myself slip
through the door,
over the carpet,
up onto the bed.
He’s lying there beneath me,
hair tucked under the tall hat.
(They say it’s made from the same
material as his dome,
so I’m carrying a Teflon slug).
I’ve only one, however,
and when the gun starts to tremble
my hands to shake,
I begin to come apart.
I need to get him in the forehead;
I need a kill shot,
but I don’t know how much Pope
is up inside the hat.
The Angelus comes from his bedside radio.
Monks sing in the distance.
I wonder, for a very long time,
if we wear the same size.
Return to September 2002