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e Photograph Blasted with light for the portrait that will be engraved on the penny, the lines of his face grow deeper until he blinks and coughs a little and rubs his eyes afterward saying— all right then now it is your turn— so the photographer sets the powder and readies the camera for the amateur who eyes him now through the lens in the black of the hood—now be still Sir and take your medicine. Not wanting to return yet to the war. More sitters are found for the president, including a chimney sweep walking by and a girl in a yellow dress with a bow and then the two of us—reluctant to say no. Tomorrow six horses burn in the stables of the White House. The sound of their screams and the look in their eyes will stay in his mind for another year or so. In eight minutes in Cold Harbor 26,000 men will be lost. This man is the cause. He looks at us appraisingly and then the flash goes off.  ...

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