JANUARY 2021
It would be all right to awaken
with sand in your shoes
and the ocean not far,
on the grounds of some island estate
listening to Sunday morning gospel
coming from the caretaker’s truck,
parked close-by under the trees
testifying to the infinite love,
and somewhere in the distance
the house risen up like a gray bastille
where Melania Trump is all alone
on one of the upper floors
touching herself in the shower,
free at last from the White House
with its candelabra and snuff-box,
its extravagant gestures and flagrant tweets,
the flash bulbs and ubiquitous lenses,
the husband who shakes in his sleep.
If you could listen to her sigh and moan
you know you’d feel happy for her
who has never learned to tell a joke
and likes poached eggs
but not the yolk
and has traveled so far from home.
—from Poets Respond
February 2, 2021
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Joseph Millar: “After considering what the Trumps life might be like in this aftermath.” (web)
