Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
I said no to the girl with the pot in her
pocket, she made
no effort to hide.
It is a democracy unless the
best friend’s top covers nothing
more than her nipples
or the 17 year old neighbor
leaves Tito vodka in the freezer downstairs, where
I never go unless we’ve gone through our stash,
of frozen Montreal bagels.
I was elected on high to be
the mother in the early 2000’s
when my three constituents were
pulled out of the incision in my belly.
It took them a few years to declare me
“Mama.” and ratify my appointment.
Facebook is plastered with chants and
petitions to #letthemin
as if BDS is not a song
laced with Fentanyl,
Tito and tits.
Throw out the Tito, I say,
and cover up.
To the tantrums and rage in the hallways, I issue love’s
“Vodka is not even allowed in the
basement and nipples are not all
that need safeguarding.”
Lori Polachek has been a closet poet for many years, storing snippets of writing on napkins and scrap pieces of paper behind running shoes and the occasional high heel. Recently, her writing has been coming out for air. She is Canadian and as such, usually very polite.