Next Eight Years
I’ll
be fifty-five next month.
In
eight more years, I’ll be
of
legal age to retire, if I hit the Lotto.
I
will not allow the antics of Forty-Five
to
ruin these next eight years
of
work, of art, of major organs
poised
for minor failure
Nor
will I refer to him
by
any of the clever names
the
media has concocted:
“Cheeto-In-Chief,”
“Orange
Monster.”
He
will not be named at all in my house,
no
flag, no celebration at his ascent,
a
name that would be as fire on the tongue,
unworthy
of praise, or energy
to
demonize at every turn.
In
the Bible book, God asks Adam to
name
the animals. Even with all His work,
they
aren’t complete until Adam labels them.
Even
the Earth is unfinished until God
make
a light to show off all the working parts.
In
my house, 45’ll never be complete.
In
my lucky house, two sound white people,
intelligent,
working for now, we have the luxury
of
leaving Forty-Five in the dark,
his
name missing from our personal headlines,
private
conversations over regular dinners,
in
well heated bedroom, too.
I’m
past the thrill of reliving the Blitz,
charm
of memorizing poems the government
doesn’t
want anyone to hear.
I
think of the peace that passes for understanding,
a
balance of sun and sublimation
that
has dominated my days.
I am
equal now to the challenge of survival,
spirit
beyond artificial borders,
contentment
beyond the whim of the ballot box.
Presidents
come and go, all colors.
It
is the woman down the block
I’m
concerned with today:
Can
she read? Where does she sleep?
Will
her body be as safe as mine for the next eight years?
How
can I help?
CAR 1/16/17
