Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
I listen to myself
and for the most part
I sound like a hippy
and what’s wrong with that?
I don’t have a political poem
like all the other Trump-era
poets have their Trump-era poems,
their words to mark our time
and our hearts and our brokenness.
Sometimes these days, I even miss
when the Dixie Chicks could say
whatever they wanted
on Bush’s game and Texan shame.
How innocent it sounds from now,
but I guess that there’s how relativity works.
This week, The Weather Channel
was found out
for inflating the severity
of Florence’s winds complete
with faux blown-down correspondents,
and President Pussy Grab is still in the White House
and I’m told now, so is fascism.
Of course there’s jackassism-narcissism,
but even I know they’re not the same thing.
By the rules of 2018 woke-ness,
it is okay and even right,
to name our so-screwed-up-but-too-quite-lacking-in-actual-genocide
democracy, “Just like Germany before the war,”
because name-calling small-mindedness,
and coordinated camp internment
mit mass terminal gassing
are practically the same thing
even if I’m not hiding
in an annex to write this
from raiding Nazis and nightsticks.
But we could,
dance this very
cracked black street
swarmed in klezmer
melody and yarmulke
and the very worst to come to be
would be the tired-eyed look
of Any American Neighbor
who could do without
the clarinet today.
Ellen Jardine writes from a hobbit hole in her backyard in South Portland, Maine. She promised herself she would never write a political poem and swears this is the only one. A selection of others were recently published in Frost Meadow Review.