47.

I meant this poem to be about hope
but the Donald put paid to that.
Maybe this poem is about interwoven
egos fighting over scraps at the table.

Maybe, instead, it could be about
disappearances – Russians dropping
like colony collapse disorder
while Trumples whistles his way past graves.

Maybe it could be about calling
slaves immigrants and praising their work ethic.
I don’t know, man.
Some days.

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