The man they vote for
sloshes his words like
a lushy wimp who enjoys his beer.
The dull continuation of another lumpy privileged protagonist whose time has expired,
whose salty tears no longer contain any seed of rehabilitation;
empty as the impotent reflection of Narcissus’ dried up well.
Get those rusty coat hangers, boys.
You’ll need them to protect yourselves from
the ghosts of unwanted babies crying in your nightmares.
They scream more loudly than orphans ripped from their parents
and placed in privately funded cages.
They scream more loudly than your fear
of dark-skinned rebels lurking in the
of your souls.