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.