He rolls his r’s
and the water molecules
shake as they slide down over him
and enter the drain.

Off to the sea they go
still holding the notes.
They evaporate into the sky
and rain down upon

a soldier trying to stay dry,
a woman shielding a hungry child,
thousands of trees falling
with no one around.

The President’s song
sinks into everything,
even though
he didn’t write it;

he sings the song he learned
at the knees of giants
who lifted him up
and set him down

behind a desk, still a little
wet behind the ears, humming
to himself. When we wonder aloud
what it is he is humming,

he shuts up. Elsewhere,
the soldier goes deaf, the woman
claps her hands over her child’s ears,
and the water begins to rise

over the wreck of the forest. We ask again:
what does the President sing in the shower?
He has forgotten
the name. All he knows is that the tune

drowns out the inconvenient truth,
and that’s enough to keep him singing
in the shower, in the office,
in the back of the limo, in the night

when he wishes he were sleeping.