Mt. Rushmore Poem

Six thousand pounds of dynamite
for the father of my country.

A chisel for God’s messenger, detained.
A hammer as his cue:

Washington: Bring the money.

Jefferson: It’s soft.

Borglum: Move behind Washington, and Roosevelt, back.

South Dakota: It’s odd here.

Italy: It’s old.

Michelangelo: That’s freedom: a new face in an old place.

Han Solo: I know.

I stood at the rail, put a quarter in, and received my 90 seconds
set aside for detail:

Theodore, sweating,
Tom staring off at the hills.
Abraham, in absentia,
George, chest out.

Susan B. Anthony (at home): All rise for the Federal Boys Club.

Roosevelt (to tourist): Take the fucking photo.

Jefferson (erected): Leave your likeness where they worship.

The stationary viewer clicked closed, and mother
led me to Crazy Horse in-progress. I looked at the mountain,
the face emerging from it, then the plaster mockup
on the boardwalk by the gift shop.

Ziolkowski (on his death bed): Do it slow. Do it right.

He has been honored by the U.S. Postal Service
with a 13-cent stamp.