Poetry

Cries crack the mast off the rotting yacht –

they are the moans of children trapped in cages

of evening dark while president 45

smears on putrid war-paint as the children cry –

whispering forgotten words –

they are the words of the sea

but with a salt-spray splinter

as living is to invite one’s own destruction.

Trump’s bullets glance off political doors

drawing young blood –

the young who are forced to bathe

in a rhetorically ugly dirty pool.

The morning news only finds president 45

vomiting into lonely microphones