The End of P.C.

Welcome to our House.

I hope the bed is as uncomfortable
as you’ve made us. That the walls creak
as loudly as you croak about your wall. I hope
that actual monsters come out of your closet.
That a Muslim female doctor opens your heart
when you need surgery and that, at every turn,
you find latinos and blacks in high, high places,
so that you are reminded of just how small you are
(and how small your hands). I hope
you are evicted, because crossing our fingers
that a seventy-year old cad will change
will only give us arthritis, and we are too awake
to let you cut, one by one, the fingers of our hands.

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