October 12, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Rick Davis




donald trump:  a portrait



you are the goddess

of noisy tweets.


your brazen voice

is a raveled knot


of tongues.

your theism


is a kind of deafness.

you are babylon’s


babbling echoes.

you are a worn fat sack


of dead field mice.

dumpster lids


are everywhere.

grey pastures.








the bartender

is sickly pale


toying with his

badly trimmed beard


waiting on

isolated souls –


his hands

quicker than spiders.


he eyes me



as i insist

that i only want


a bottle of water.

“water is like breasts”


he mumbles hoarsely,

watching men,


drunk with disappointment,

whom i avoid seeing


with the cool removal

of cultivated arrogance.


i fidget

under a round


stale light

watching whispering dust


hang in heavy air.

a glittering woman


with cashmere hands

and expensive blue eyes


walks in,

looks around


and scampers out.

also anxious to leave,


i head outside

breathing deeply,


cleansed by

damp river air.








Rick Davis

Rick (Richard) Davis is married and lives in the Logan Square neighborhood of Chicago with his wife. He graduated from Northeastern Illinois University, and has completed several graduate programs. He has published over 600 poems.

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