Poetry

October 12, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo

 

By

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.

 

 

 

 

bar

 

 

the bartender

is sickly pale

 

toying with his

badly trimmed beard

 

waiting on

isolated souls –

 

his hands

quicker than spiders.

 

he eyes me

suspiciously

 

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 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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