He’s NOT my President

He’s NOT my President

I eat breakfast,

think of the mother

of Mondays

in front of a broken well,

clean dry leaves off a plank 
on top of the bed

calm as the man who washes

gold dust in the privacy of his house.

The wind reaches

into the pockets of night,

sails through plazas

I can't recognize, deserted

avenues I've never seen,

stores where promises are paid

with promises.

It rests in the fury of keys,

draws two lines of fire on the counter

of a bar near my house,

builds nationalist utopias

& banishes women in burkas,

in front of the white house

by the lake.

My job is my father's old job.

I care for the salt, measure the crystals,

frighten away white precipice birds.