Between Korea and Vietnam,
it was my favorite dime-store gag.
The soily smell thrilled me sick.

A cardboard coin, a smudged visage
of some leader’s solemn profile,
a Lincoln, Ike, or FDR.

I snap a match against my nail
and kiss our leader’s face with it
then watch it flare, smoke, and stink:

it blooms a pleated, pinkie-sized
squirming Chinese New Year grub:
the President plumps, implodes, crumbles

into a compost nubbin of ash.
His lies die with him. My world,
ten years old, is no better place.