by William Doreski
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| Boris Johnson returns inside 10 Downing Street after making his resignation speech on July 7. Photographer: Chris J. Ratcliffe/Bloomberg |
Because I found the ticket
for the cold-storage locker
on the outskirts of Frankfort,
I must reclaim the rumpled corpse
of the long-debauched hero
and somehow arrange to return it
to the nation he led until
his wingspan shrank and he fell.
The attendant speaks only German
and I speak only the crudest slang.
He unlocks the locker to allow
inspection of the earthly goods.
The familiar upturned face,
sallow professional smile,
arched gothic eyebrows grinning
and bruise-blue eyes unwinking,
opens its wired jaws to speak.
Everyone warned me that even
fifty years after death he’d claim
airtime to unleash his grievance,
a fiction he wrought in Parliament
as the members shook and groaned.
The chill in the locker numbs me.
I drop the lid before he mouths
a syllable of pious cant.
His blond shock and beer-stained suit
signaled a feckless charisma
that faded long before death.
No one wants him to recur
half a century after his prime.
The attendant sneers and offers
a snort of schnapps to calm me.
I accept despite the agony
of all those clashing “S” sounds.
Let the British consul handle
transport to Westminster Abbey
where a few curious old folks
may wish to fondle the corpse.
I step outside into Europe’s
painterly light and soak it in,
bracing political virginity
against history and brazen lies.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
