Wasted Opportunity by the French
Cote Smith
At night, the undead Napoleon emerges
from the crown and scales,
descends her forehead,
the bridge of her nose.
This is almost too easy,
he thinks, except in French.
I don’t know French, but soon,
we all will.
He repels down the steel dress,
feet land ground and he’s in.
Kissing the liberty toe gives the signal;
hundreds of soldiers follow suit.
The White House never stood a chance.
This is the neo-Trojan War,
and we are the Trojans,
minus our Hector.
