America in 2019
after Shelley, after 200 years
An old, bald, despised man who would be King,
or Czar if he could, watches headlines flow
across screens like sludge from a swampy spring
all day. He fumes. He’s claimed he doesn’t know
a thing about supremacists who cling
to thumb-mute tweets, his high whistles that blow
in silence. Somewhere in a cold, dry field
a child is being hunted down like prey.
Whimpering about powers he can’t wield,
the journalists he’s not allowed to slay,
his cancelled parade, some indictments sealed,
or voting rights and health care unrepealed,
he shrugs, tents tiny fingers, says I may
or may not. We may have another day.