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.
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.