Mike Pence

88

“Strategic patience.”  That is what it’s called.
A euphemism standing in for peace.
Fewer than a hundred days, in all.
Yet probabilities for peace decrease.
And like a child kneeling at a pond
Who sees himself, his image, reflecting,
Though he knows that deep below has spawned
A bubble that is rising, surfacing,
Our country slowly watches, filled with horror.
The bubble ripples through the peaceful scene.
Our government has changed, a new director
That leads us to a war we do not need.
They warn Korea, “Don’t test his resolve!”
But ours is tested.  Already they fall.
—SF

72

At yet another reporter’s behest,
Trump, yet again, is unsure what to do.
And while a curious reporter requests,
Veep realizes the President’s mistake—phew!
It’s evident on tape: order remains.
What would his reply be?  “I had no pen”?
Would Trump find blame for Democrats, again?
Or will “fake news media” be to blame?
What else will bungling White House acts not do?
That story about the wiretap is phony.
Don’t deny it, climate change is real, bro.
Chlorpyrifos is dangerous, Scotty.
Someone needs to start listening to facts,
Otherwise, there’ll be no turning back.
—OS, NN

62

Last evening nightmares opened up my eyes—
I dreamt of politics subject to lament—
And, hands still shaking, I met a surprise
When late-night news streamed “Madam President!”
Still stupefied, I searched, opened the blinds—
Looked out upon a world I saw anew!
Without Twitter tirades or fear-plagued minds,
This universe was too good to be true!
Walls crushed, bans gone, no “alternative facts,”
Gone Ryancare, and Russia, Dreadful Sound—
Mike Pence is past, and Spicer can RELAX,
‘Cause big old baby Donald’s not around…
Yet when I saw no one had been offended,
Reality returned and daydreams ended.
—HM

17

His trumpet tweets: the judges’ transgressions!
My noise will live beyond this courtly cadence!
Repeated notes in all the same progressions:
Insults—fake news—the Wall—terrorists—Pence!
The judges’ cymbals clang against this canon,
Whose harsh beat tries again to split and banish;
Injunctions clap down, halting citizens’ panic,
As workers, migrants, students cease to vanish.
Through atonal commotion drums new thunder
Distracting from the belting trumpet’s croons,
The sounds of marching feet respond to blunders,
Demanding different rhythms, different tunes.
The audience, distressed, hears from these marchers,
Freedom’s music, and harmony’s departure.
—LDS, PTL, ERP