Not exactly a political poem, rather an ode. |
This cold lump Of earth is made warm and flowering By the Sun - Mister Trump. His red solar hair And his shouting mouth, made into a strong, threatening O Dissolve the darkness. McDonald’s fried potatoes Are really sunbeams, made crisp and edible - Credible! - As Mister Trump’s every action. As a golden distraction He enjoys having them for dinner (The invited persons feel free And some even use toothpicks In a relaxed manner). I soar high In my thoughts if not in the physical space When I see his red tie. Though being the Sun, He is not pompous. Nor is Mike Pompeo, His trusted Moon. Mike’s face is plain, But the meek inner light Grants it the significance, Which should be expected from a second-in-rank. Not too overbearing, Not too self-imposing, But yielding whenever it’s expected to yield With a clockwork precision. The Moon yields to the Sun And to nobody else. That is the reverse, Hard side of the meekness. A heavy coin lies in my palm, Half gold, half silver. I do not stress unduly Its being a dollar. I know exactly how it lands If I toss it. A secure gratitude Fills me. |