Weekly poem on Trump Presidency
My arm is caught so deep in a well,
it nearly touches its reflection at the bottom.
The arm is bare and reaches upward
from a small depression made of stone.
This means I am naked,
that the well is on the moon.
I must be serving a penitence here:
a year for each percentage
of emaciation of experience
I experience year to year.
Year after year my body on earth
is called from a red telephone beside a pool.
And someone is always answering for me.
This, too, is my punishment.
An Egyptian cotton towel around his waist,
he’s loping slowly toward the phone
as if this were one of the many fruitless tasks
of living in the present moment.
It is tiresome. Hurry up, I say.
His office is probably pyramid-colored
where he places the heads of others in his lap
so sweetly they begin to think his thoughts.
He stretches his back. He yawns.
His station in life has always been the peasant’s station.
THE EAGLE 106.1 to be precise.
Its radio signal reaches me,|
transmitted to the moon:
The sixth caller has won the pair of plastic fangs!
O to make them mine once more.
To wear them, remove them, and rinse them off.
To wear them, remove them, and rinse them again.
But with a little more caution this time.
Peter Mishler is the author of poetry collection Fludde forthcoming from Sarabande Books in 2018.