Could shame him for his stench
in a public place — all covered in
sweat and Irish Spring soap and
looking nearly fully asleep
here, at a banquet of nations.

Could shame him for his lusts, his appetite
for young women’s flesh –he yearns
for their touch upon his flab until he
can fall asleep upon them and they have
to wriggle, gorges rising in their throats, to get out.

Could shame him for his feeble arrogance
based on his crude cartoon vision of
what America was, is, should be.
He turns his back on a big beautiful land
and paints a pool with algae and blue blood.

Could he be more a bad sitcom
than a press conference? Easily.
Except he won’t. He will be a horrible
experience, a plague, a mystery of dead hearts
that worship his smell. He will eat death

like a candy and throw wrappers down
while sycophants and toadies kiss
at his back side and pretend to understand him —
because they do and they will. They know him,
know which tiny corner of the bread isn’t moldy.

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