Poetry

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 (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.