A Very Small Room

As the crumbs fall
the donald swelters
and reddens in the sun
we wonder how much
rare steak he eats
and how much wine
is required to forget.

It’s all in the gut
we’ve got barking rabid
dogs in the stomach
chewing slippers and the law
nipping at long and short
legs of new arrivals
and worn out leavers.

Not thinking of the future
we built an autonomous drone
programmed with bile.
It targets children
of all the wrong races.
We call it the return
to droning greatness.

In the land of the long
fractured polite society
the leg-bone is unconnected
to the hind-brain-bone
the wall will be built
and we will not pay for
thinking about it.

Hands in itchy pockets
I stand on one side
wondering about throwing
rocks over the wall
and whether the cameras are on
and if my name is on a list
and who might come knocking.

In response to response
the donald becomes travis bickle
looking at himself in the mirror
repeating in variant articulations
‘you want a piece of me?’
by himself in his mind it is
escalation in a small room.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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