I feel guilty when I write about Trump, because I’m contributing nothing but despair.  And I feel guilty when I don’t write about him, because how life-threatening he is to America. So today I’ll just submit a little poemette, entitled

WILL I STILL BE ME?

I want to know

most terribly so.

While rooming in the womb,

on the stage behind the curtains,

overhearing intimations

of change. Whose screams?

I arrive, a piece of ignited clay

presenting with my backside,

bringing pain on opening day.