In my nightmares, I am on stage,
Trump on his own pedestal, beside me,
reporters before us inquiring:
Why do you think Trump’s trumpet out of tune?
Why do you cringe when he toots his horn?
What has he done to earn your scorn?
In my nightmares, I choke,
my words stampeding each other
in their rush to escape.
In my nightmares, the timer counts down
the seconds when I know I need days;
I haven’t the time to count the ways.