Last night in Topeka, Rosa’s Tex-Mex
tasted like Chateaubriand compared to
this stale-bread ham here at Forbes. Torrid sex
‘til dawn with Ginnie, then needing to screw
now with this Dell, can’t compare. Here I am,
activated again from Arkansas,
controlling this Predator drone—its cam
eyeing an Al Farouq factory’s haul
outside Kandahar—prepping to propel
four Hellfires, burning building and work crews
to cinders. I once threw paper missiles
in Father Groff’s history class. One flew
harmlessly hitting the back of his head.
A long way from fathers I now leave dead.
Roger Armbrust
June 18, 2007
