of the US, resplendent in a blue suit.
We’re in a waiting room,
someone hands me a guitar
and tells me we’re on in five minutes.
I play the Mary Tyler Moore song,
showing someone else,
outside the view of the dream,
how I want it played.
“Like this,” I say,
“very staccato on the 8th notes.”
Love is all around.
“This is all in G,” I say.
No need to fake it…
Then I’m onstage. It’s Leno or Letterman
or maybe a rerun of Arsenio.
I tell a couple of jokes and then go over to the band
where a stool and an acoustic are waiting.
I nod my head and we do the song.
People are smiling and clapping,
like I’m a dumb dog who finally caught the Frisbee.
My aides are offstage, waving to me to follow.
Walkie talkies. A limo is outside. The Ambassador of Senegal
or Syria and a state dinner.
I look over my shoulder, give them the
“wait a minute, I’m the president” wave
and I count 4 into “Tupelo Honey.”
The band knows it. It sounds really good.
Pfefferle, W.T. "President Dream," Indiana Review 34:1 (Summer 2012): 81-82.