Thursday, November 17, 2016

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.

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