His flaws have no camouflage;
he wears them on his sleeve
with pride, and pride is first
A buffoon, he lampoons all
but his reflection, speaks
without reflection, every word
an anvil, crushing.
Slow down, old man,
I want to tell him.
As full of yourself as you are,
you are empty, and those
riding your coattails,
are in fact riding you.
You are as you treat others,
and so you are trash.
Hide in your towers
and behind the Twin Towers
and in the wee hours
of the night on your phone.
You preside over us but
there is nothing presidential
about your throne.
You make enemies to make friends,
make walls to pretend
that our safety depends
on our distance from each other,
but today we stand close as a pack.
You come for our huddled and hungry;
our hunger beats your hunger back.
Miss America did not wake up
this beautiful. She stands in heels
but she is healing, combing out the tangles
of isms that bring her down.
She is not great, but she is better
than she was, and Mr. Trump,
she has a restraining order on you.
A modern king, he wears no crown but
true to tradition runs men ‘to the ground.
Men with ideas that fly high, he cages. There
the birds grow, and if after ages they escape
they are carried aloft by all they know. Still, it is
from prison to prison that they are released;
wings clipped, beaks broken, no power of speech.
Some flee, some are flayed, some heaven-bound
while others, afraid, live and die without sound.
The king outlives many. The king wants to thrive.
He’ll kill every man if it’ll keep him alive.