Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
I’m trying to live here without rule—
family analogous to the state.
Mostly nothing is happening for me, because of me.
Really, I don’t concern anyone.
An individual is the smallest world, especially if it has no currency.
I walk into Union Station,
see a police dog wearing a yellow vest
listening to two men talk
as it cools its ass on the cold marble floor.
I’m trying to not go under.
There are these policies and laws and things
I don’t necessarily care for or believe in. I guess, I mean, don’t abide by.
And the dog—I think—has the authority to arrest me.
It’s just after Christmas. To celebrate
another year of service, there is a municipality dance
in an old ballroom downtown.
The dog and the other members in blue wear their finest.
I hear many tales. The dog is married. The dog has parents and children,
bank account and college fund, access to the cadastral map,
macled eyes and a barbed cock, isn’t apologetic,
understands himself to be what he is,
and takes his own orders from on high.
I fear none of us are getting along. At the dance,
his name is written in every slot of the dance card.
There’s not a dance he’s not dancing.
Carl Adamshick is an editor at Tavern Books, a non-profit poetry press based in Portland, Oregon. His fourth collection of poems, Birches, will be published in January 2019.