Harry Truman on the Morning after FDR Died
I
Morning, a most presidential morning I think,
grinning
at myself in the shaving mirror,
doing
for one moment a small tap dance:
a
dance I've seen them do along the Missouri
for
4th of July celebrations for, well
I
don't want to think about how many years,
the
sky exploding with fireworks,
the
levee below and the city eerie, unreal, glowing.
Bess
is still sleeping. Of course, the city is sleeping,
darkness
heavy on the grass.
She
turns as I kiss her cheek, settles again into slumber,
dreaming
perhaps of home. So many dreaming of home,
so
many dead: Midway, the Atlantic, the beaches of northern France.
II
One
bird call, liquid, and that moment before the sun,
light pulsing against white and salmon breakfast room walls;
newspapers,
coffee, orange juice,
briefing
books, poached eggs, sausage.
In
one hand the wounded, the hungry, in the other hand
hot
buttered toast and wild strawberry jam.
III
There's
a thin binder marked "The Manhattan Project"
stamped
Eyes Only
on
a mahogany table in a room with no windows,
flickering
with a cold green light
from
fluorescent tubes humming slightly
like
airplane engines far off on a quiet day
in
a city calm as an old stone shrine.