This is for you....

Death had established himself in the Red Room, 
the White House having become his natural 
abode: chalk-white facade, pillars like the bones 
of extinct empires, armed men crawling its halls 
or looking down, with suspicion, from its roof; 
its immense luxury, thick carpets, its plush velvet chairs—
all this made Death comfortable, bony as he is, a fact 
you'd barely notice, his camouflage a veil of flesh 
drawn over him, his tailor so adroit, and he so elegant, 
so GQ, almost a dandy, so suited for the tables 
where the crystal, silverware, the swans of ice gleamed 
with the polished purity of light on precious things; 
Death was the guest of honor here, confiding, convivial 
among friends who leaned to light his cigar—his power 
seemed their own, body counts at their command; 
a power beyond even their boy-wet dreams 
was now a custom they feared to lose: each saw 
the world the way a hooded falcon on the fist 
sees it, blind, waiting for the next release; one word 
could bury villages alive, could send 
battalions to an early grave— 
                                          so Death can rest 
assured, smiling at such a harvest—and so 
deliciously unseasonable, like berries in winter. 
Welcome houseguest, he stretches his ancient 
frame, warm under expensive wool, sipping wine, 
picking his teeth with a last bone, 
meat all the sweeter for being 
the lambs of honor, corn-fed and unsuspecting; 
or the children playing in the rubble 
who reach down for a souvenir of steel 
that has fallen from the sky—really, 
Death has seldom had a better season or such 
a winning score; he must see to their protection, 
these little men who think to be his master—
flatter a fool and make him useful, he thinks, 
and smiles, benignly, whitely, at his hosts, 
assuring them of his gratitude, his presence 
at their councils, his everlasting support ... 
until, no longer able to hide 
his triumph, his delight, forgetting the flesh 
he has clothed himself in for the occasion, 
he rubs his hands together 
in the ancient gesture of satisfaction, 
naked bone on bone—how the sound grates, 
how the grateful sparks fly!