the rough beast does not slouch,
he walks erect while speaking
at small rotary club luncheons
or on late-night public access channels,
expounding on man's dominion over man

he's pudgy and unassuming,
hardly a feral child brimming
with preternatural powers--
yet he's been cultivating his charm
since the advent of sin,
he moves incognito, a grass roots antichrist,
the man behind the man
who never reads Yeats

the world won't end with a whimper,
but with a conference call--
he'll pull over at a rest stop outside Albuquerque
with his wireless remote
to organize the endgame from a bathroom stall