Girl Power
by Sam Leidig

Good morning, Odessa!
How are you, my lamb?
It seems I may need a masseuse on hand.

Why, you ask?
You must not watch the news.
The people have fallen for my well thought out ruse.

I’m ahead of “The Donald” on the campaign trail, if his wife speaks again, he’s destined to fail. I thought those foreigners had immigrant zeal!
Send her back!
Drag the screaming bald eagle off that passport seal!
She walks with a swish and a toss of her hair, there can’t be gray matter coiled up in there! The girl is enchanting, but daft to the core. Let’s get back to Monica, I must tell you more.
She wasn’t in my company before the big scandal, once things became public, we called her a vandal. It was as if no other woman had walked in her sandals.
Here was my Bill, the man that I MADE, consorting with a woman fit to serve lemonade, severely unfit for our mighty motorcade.
I knew one day I would end up like this. The man loves to flirt, to touch and to kiss. Any flapping frock tail blowing in the wind, will get his attention- big, tall or thin.
My mother called me up when the whole thing went down. She said, my dear girl, I’ll soon be around. We’ll get manis and pedis, put curls in our hair. Don’t fret over Billy, he’s going nowhere.
I listened to mama, for I guess she knows. Men have been men since they were writing on stone. We had a girl’s weekend, it was such a good time. The pampering and primping helped ease my mind.
Like a true politician, I did damage control, became the bigger woman, let my story be told. As the blinding lights flashed in and out of my face, I decided to head over Monica’s place.
This woman owes me nothing, Bill is to blame. He created my hurt, handcrafted my pain.
After much deliberation and frequent inquisition, my new friend Monica helped me make a decision.
Hill, she said, you’re fit for the job. You know how to steal, how to kill, how to rob. You’re good with The colored, The Japs and The Jews. Your only downfall is those God awful shoes.
So Odessa, my lamb, that’s what I did. I forgave my husband, and put in my bid.
In less than a week, my fate will be sealed. When they shout my name, Lewinsky will squeal.
In true presidential fashion, I’ll throw my head back, as I laugh, laugh, laugh, my neck might crack.

* Note: I have no ill will towards Hillary. I saw her smiling in the photo and thought, how cool would it be if she and Monica planned her campaign as a way to get back at Bill? We all felt sorry for her, right? Anyhow, I know this isn’t my style, since I am not a fan of poems that rhyme, but I decided to keep it light since I’m always talking about something sad or painful. I hope it makes you chuckle.
(Links to an external site.)

Mary’s Little Lamb
I watch you sleep
Eyes po(u)ring over you like honey,
Analyzing your every move,
Listening to my heart go higher and higher, back and forth on your swing.

Counting the hairs on your head
Wondering who you’ll be someday
Imagining your dreams as your tiny fingers curl up on the pillow
And your tongue clicks softly in the roof of your mouth
The sound of your breathing is a symphony.

Was a symphony.

Seems that someone has stopped the music-

Forever sleep holds you in her arms.

Crouched down on the side of God’s bed, fuzzy slippers on my feet,
I threw my hair over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t looking.

The clouds were sleeping, steadily resting, making ready to cover the mortals in gray come morning.

I felt for the box and pulled it towards me. It was about the size of a shoebox. Black. Plain. Unassuming. I’d been looking at it since my arrival and decided tonight was the night.

Without delay, I wrapped my fingers around its lips and opened it.

Paper. The cleanest, purest paper.
Nothing on it.
No writing, no crayon marks, no milk or honey stains.

My heart dropped.
All that anticipation for blank sheets.

In a fit of confusion, I held it up to the sky, and so the words presented themselves to me.

What a wicked thing I did to you. Mother cried out for days. I am a brute.

It wasn’t all my idea. I am so sorry. Please talk to your father for me.

Mr. Weiss,
When I had them take you away, turned my head, because I knew you were a good man…

Please forgive me for the sale of your precious baby…

My goodness. I don’t even feel like a human being anymore. The way they chopped you up by the river…

I read as many as I could then lost my nerve and skipped to the last sheet.

And it read:

The oppressor loves the oppressed more than we know. Hatred of other people does not lead the charge. It is the quest for power and possession that makes monsters of humanity.
-The Guy Whose Bed You’re Under