I don’t want to talk about it
but there is a man in the White House
who does,
who talks about it
in the abstract,
who describes it as
big and beautiful;
who wouldn’t know beauty if it bit him
in the flabby ass;
who shouldn’t be mocked for his appearance
because his mind is as shaky,
shakier more than his body;
who opens up often
and lets it fall out of him
like rubella, like pestilence,
like any of a number of plagues;

I don’t want to talk about it
because I am frightened
of those neighbors of mine
who speak of
running away from his words;
who look to the forest
or some other place to hide;
who just
turn the TV off or turn
the radio off or
their ears off
when the White House speaks;
who just
can’t hear him,
can’t stand him,
who act like
mythical ostriches
in the face of his words;

I don’t want to talk about it
because of neighbors
who silently agree with him;
who feel
in their ulcers
that he is right;
who look
with evil suspicion
on neighbors of all sorts;
who settle
with satisfaction
on so little of the world;

I don’t want to talk about it
because
in the shadow of the fat man
in the White House
there are men armed to the teeth
and they seek me and
sneer at me and my ilk;
in the shadow of the White Man
in the House
there are reasons upon reasons
to fear me,
to fear us,
to fear what we might choose to do;
in the White Shadow
of the dark man in his White House
the orders
have long been clear:

clear and clean
this land;
if butchery is required,
let it come to pass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T