Thirteen Ways of Looking at Donald Trump
Among that dismal array of Republicans,
The only one connecting
Is a blowhard businessman.
I was of three minds,
Like a ballot
On which there are three unacceptable candidates.
The Trump card whirled in the primary winds.
It is a hot-air inflated part of a high stakes poker game.
An angry white man and a frightened white man
Anger and fear and Donald Trump
I do not know which to fear more,
The promise of terror
Or the terror of promises,
The candidate posturing
Or just after.
Fear of the other fills the long campaign
With assaults and showdowns.
The ignorance of the candidate
Crosses lines, right and left.
Pollute the atmosphere.
O greedy, anxious voters,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how how Donald Trump’s wealth
Will always and forever
Belong only to him?
I know noble truths
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
A Constitution written by white slave-holders,
A Bill of Rights by men who
denied women and children theirs.
If Donald Trump wins the election,
It will mark the edge
Of any one of nine circles.
At the sight of Trump Towers
Built on slum rents and pimp profit,
Even the Founding Fathers
Would cry out sharply.
He rides over people with disability
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his vehicle
For a wheelchair.
The delegate count moved steadily upwards.
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
It has been evening all afternoon.
It is snowing in July
And a frozen Hell is possible.
Donald Trump is sitting
Beside that rough beast.
Its hour has come round at last.