Who thought let them eat cake would ever pale
Compared, as it does, to forgetting which
Country he’d bombed, but not the one detail
We didn’t need: the most delicious, rich
Piece of chocolate cake you’ve ever seen.
An ad for Mar-a-Lago’s best dessert,
So moist, so glossy-sweet, it took the sheen
Of missile-fire to finally divert
His guest’s attention. The weight silenced him,
While Trump just kept on eating, that dumb mouth
I’ve only seen open. Full to the brim,
It later couldn’t tell the country south
Of Syria, or what he’d really done—
His cake the center of his world of one.


My head is spinning from this past month’s news;
By the week Trump’s being seems to change!
A personality he cannot choose,
Trades “yes” for “no,” a puzzling exchange
That puts our country’s fate in fickle hands.
In fear, I watch the White House move the target,
A plethora of fraught partisan plans.
But can the man himself follow their argot?
Syria, Trumpcare, NATO, and ISIS
Matters of life and death remain capricious.
Each issue leads to crazed internal crisis!
But good or bad, Trump’s certainly ambitious.
Each day brings forth positions unexpected,
And still I don’t know what we have elected.


A missile rises and falls perfectly,
Parabola following nature’s way.
Each action needs reaction’s courtesy,
The circumstances changing as they may.
If human nature likewise always trumps,
Its thrust turns twists toward targets once rejected.
The same ones turned away to face their lumps
Are ones for whose protection fire’s directed.
The trail on screen shows nothing of the flaws
Beyond the two points joined by this correction.
The simple swing connecting fist and jaw
Leaves ugly traces seen just in reflection.
Revenge flips horror’s function on its axis,
And knee-jerk theory renders death its praxis.


The rain is not of blood, or frogs, or sweat,
Or even danger. The human is not
In it. It looks so like a jumbo jet,
A metal tube with wings. It can be shot
One thousand miles from target. Can be bought
A million bucks apiece. The deaths are net,
Not gross. Unlike the gas, the horror’s not
A gasping, grasping at the throat, the wet
Of suffocation. The bolt’s not a god’s,
Or even man’s, but math’s, and hence, is dropped
Without a warning from above. A streak,
And then it’s light revenge, or justice, lots
Drawn even. Can it help deter? It stopped
Six hearts dead cold, though none here missed a beat.