Last night, I had a dream I was
in this military warehouse
filled with missiles and bombs.

I was in there having a party
with some friends.
I was wearing sandals
on the wrong feet, the left
on the right
and the right on the left.

My clownish side kick,
some Marx Brothers character,
had climbed atop a giant missile;
wanting attention, I suppose,
he started shooting machine guns
and setting off grenades and rocket launchers
and letting out ghosts
from some kind of ghost chamber,
as the phantoms flew in the air
and screamed with agony mouths.
Everyone from the party started shivering.
As it finally started quieting down—
the warehouse in total shambles—
the people at the party turned
and stared at my side kick,
who was still standing on that giant missile;
they stared at him with awestricken scowls.
“Sorry.” he said squeamishly
with hunched shoulders,
just like so many politicians
you and I know
so well.