Into his kit when sent to the front he had tucked
his black three-piece suit and through night
after night of the frightful bombing, which
not only wiped out but pragmatically entombed
his luckless comrades in a marvel of technological
decadence, he had kept the suit protected
so that at the surrender he had stripped naked
and slipped it on. This is when the photographer
caught him, that among thousands of defeated
there walked on Iraqi in a three-piece suit
who tried to express by his general indifference
that he had stumble into all this carnage simply
by accident and was now intent on strolling away.
I am a modest banker tossed on the wrong bus.
I am a humble stockbroker who took a wrong turn.
And he passed through the American lines
and began hitchhiking south. Did he elect
to relocate in Kuwait? Fat chance! Did he
want the lovable Saudis as new neighbors?
Quite unlikely! What about the opportunities
offered by the Libyans, Tunisians, Egyptians?
Truly hilarious! Was there any place in Africa
where he hoped to lay his head? Decidedly
not! What about Europe where he could start
as a servant or chop vegetables in the back
of a restaurant but work his way up? Completely
crazy! Or North America where he could dig
a ditch but with the right breaks might buy
a used car? Too ludicrous! What about South
America where he could pick fruit or Asia where
he could toil in a sweatshop? You must be nuts!
In his black suit he is already dressed for the part
and hopes to hitchhike to one of those Antarctic
islands and stroll around with the penguins.
Good evening Mr. White, good evening Mrs. Black,
your children swim quite nicely, they look
so hardy and fit. No one to give him orders
but the weather. No one to terrify him
but the occasional shark. No one to be mean to
but the little fish, who were put into this ocean
to serve him and who he praises with each bite.
Thank you, gray brother for the honor you have bestowed
on my belly. May you have the opportunity
to devour me when my days on earth are done.
This poem first appeared in The Paris Review and was chosen by Louise Gluck for The Best American Poetry 1993. In his contributor note, Dobyns writes in part: "The photograph described in the poem was a photograph that I saw at the time. I find political poems very difficult, to write and often to read, but I feel that poetry needs to bear witness to the world rather than to the complications or shortcomings of the author’s life. The photograph enabled me to construct a poem that contained my feelings about the war and the eagerness for violence and depredation that is so close to the heart of the human animal.
"Formally, the poem centers upon encounters with the letter ‘T’ (with a special nod to its pals ‘K’ and ‘P’) which attempts to echo a violence that is eventually replaced by the peacefulness of the long ‘O’ when my hero reaches the promised land."
— sdh