The Bushiad
Chapter 6: Fatherly Advice

The Idyossey
Chapter 1- Ichor of the Gods
Chapter 2- The Price of Peace
Chapter 3- Empyre
Chapter 4- Woeful Warrior
Chapter 5- Mitzvah
Chapter 6- News Analysis
Chapter 7- Strategic Planner
Chapter 8- Aristea
Chapter 9- Last Supper
Chapter 10- Skullduggery
Chapter 11: Family Reunion
Chapter 12- Black Goddess
Chapter 13- Saboteur
Chapter 14- Glossolalia
Chapter 15- Visitation
Chapter 16- Dead or Alive
Chapter 17- Across the Border
Chapter 18- The Unraveling
Chapter 19- Summer in the City
Chapter 20- Wolf and Jackal
Chapter 21- George Gloats
Chapter 22- Surreality
Chapter 23- Kidnapped
Chapter 24- Denouement

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The weekly call from Poppy comes right on time,
As the setting sun’s last rays begin to fade
Golden hues give way to pinks and deep blues.
Night’s sheer curtains draw closed upon the world,
Colors fade to grays and blacks in dimming light
As Resolute George picks up the ringing phone.

“43, this is 41” says old King George, “How are you?”
“Right fine,” says George, “been waiting for your call.”
Simple George emerges, grasps a rubber ball
And begins to compress it, building up his grip.
Forearms work with the effort, tendons taut,
Hands squeeze with memories of curve balls thrown.

“This Saddam thing’s heating up,” the old man says.
“Yep,” says George, “Things are in control, don’t worry.”
“Not worried, ‘you da’ man’” says Poppy, “Just
A bit confused about the plan, want to understand.”
George stops squeezing, feels his face flush,
Warmth moves up his collar, back of his neck goes red.

“There’s not a lot to understand,” says George.
“Saddam is evil and we’re gonna take him out.”
“Evil’s bad,” say Poppy, “Can’t put up with evil.
Might be a good idea to wait a bit, build more support,
More countries on our side, go in more united.”
George drops the ball, it’s grabbed by Spot the dog.

“You don’t like what I’m doing?” George asks curtly.
“Didn’t say that,” says Poppy. Resolute George cuts him off,
“Same conversation, same complaints, same accusations,
Like a broken record for 40 years. Never good enough,
Not smart enough, too impulsive, too rash. Well I’m President,
And for once you need to just shut up!”

George sweats, dark round stains in his shirt,
He wipes his wet upper lip on the back of his hand.
Like a major league pitcher with a long 3-2 count,
Batter crowding the plate, crouching low, defensive,
One ball after another knocked hard foul into the stands,
George feels the tension mount, his frustration builds.

“You had your chance,” he vents, “You blew it!”
“It’s up to me to clean your mess and do the job right.”
Sweat drips from his nose to the blotter on the Lincoln desk,
Joins other spots and stains. Pizza grease, coffee drops
All offer silent testimony to the strain of command
That accompanies attempts at absolute control.

“Slow down son!” the old man says, “Don’t fly off the handle.
Diplomacy takes time, can’t be telling allies they
Have no role to play but yours. Not smart.”
“Not smart you say,” Resolute George is burning red,
“Not smart is what you’ve always said, not like Jeb.
He was always smarter...but I was first, the older brother!

“You never thought I was good enough. I proved you wrong,”
George the resolute sneers with narrowed eyes, “Now
The world will find out that I’m the one with power!”
Things have gotten out of hand. “Now son,” Poppy stammers,
“All I’m saying is that you can’t do it alone. We all
Need friends. When this matter’s done the world will go on.”

But Resolute George can’t stop. His shirt is soaking wet,
Hangs off his neck like a jersey after extra innings.
“I’ve drawn the line,” he says, “48 hours to clear out!
If the world doesn’t like it, fuck 'em.” Spittle flies from his lips.
“I’ve got the power now, and I’m gonna use it!”
He finally sits down, his anger spent.

“So that’s it?” says Poppy, “Proving you’re top dog.
Well, son, I’m not going to try to talk sense into you.
That anger of yours, lashing out at those who try to help.
It’s your Achilles heel. I watch you on TV, calm and careful
But I know the rage that roils deep inside you and
Even though I love you, always have, you scare me.”

“Look Dad,” George says softly, drained from his tirade,
“I know you’re the hero, the flyer who saved lives.
You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. But
This moment’s mine, my time for honor, my time for glory,
My time to escape your shadow, be remembered.
Show the world that I really am my own man.”

“You’re mother’s here, she’d like to say hello,” says 41.
“Sure, put her on,” says 43, tightening his tie.
“Georgie, it’s your Mom,” Barbara’s voice reassuring and strong.
Simple George’s eyes well up with tears, “Hi Mom” he says.
Suddenly wetness runs down his cheeks, lips quiver,
“Mommy,” he says, “I think Daddy’s mad at me again.”

Her soft and soothing voice helps George slow down.
He collapses deeply into a cushioned chair
Wipes his eyes, his sleeves darken with salty tears.
While Barbara talks of childhood pranks and baseball games,
Thoughts of Saddam, Anthrax attacks, hijacked planes recede
Into the sweet embrace of motherly love.
 
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