The first in a desultory series of poems attempting to express the psychic and spiritual costs we've been paying, no matter what anybody says.
Though I know he's just a symptom and not the disease, like puss
(And I acknowledge that I might be part of the cause of the disease)
[And I know this poem only exacerbates the disease]
It's nevertheless stubbornly true that
One of the few remaining goals that I still fondle in middle life
(I used to want to be famous! I used to want to be important! I used to want to be gorgeous! I used to want to be love itself!)
Is to live long enough
To read the headline
(Preferably in the failing New York Times),
Objectively true and unassailable by tweet,
Donald J. Trump Is Dead*
* Some correspondence that this post generated indicates that at least one reader interpreted as a "kill-the-president" post. It is nothing of the sort. Only a truly sorrowful admission about the low way the man makes me feel, consciously dreaming of merely outlasting him.