Here's a poem from Brief Lives, a poetry chapbook of mine (2007):
Theodore Roosevelt (1904)
He orders the train to a dead stop,
lumbers into high Nebraska blue stem grass.
In a hundred years, our luck must not
dog us. Beside him, like forceps clamping
a stillborn's head, a Secret Service agent
takes a fiddle from a case and sings
New York headlines. Summer thunder.
He is on his way home to the White House,
braying love for his ranch on the Little Missouri.
We must not be strong-armed by knaves
who'd cut our timber to twirl velvet purses.
Porters spread a blanket among sun-whitened
horse bones, serve fresh roasted yellow corn.
Teddy drinks from a shooting trophy mug.