Weekly poem on Trump Presidency



A Press Conference

There will be no questions,
the aid says, as the President takes 

the podium. He clears
his throat and, God 

as my witness, fans a deck of cards.
Asks one of us to take our pick. 

It’s absurd, and he isn’t much
good at this; you can tell, watching  

a length of rope ravel from his sleeve,
the sad rose pinned to his lapel, but  

let’s humor him a bit—I mean, what
could it hurt? One  

correspondent reaches into
a top hat, comes back missing 

his wedding band and wristwatch.
No questions. No questions. 

For his next trick, you guessed it,
watch him make us all disappear, he says.

Nathan McClain is the author of Scale (Four Way Books, 2017). His poems and prose have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Poem-a-Day, The Baffler, West Branch Wired, and The Common, among others.


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