He’s NOT my President

He’s NOT my President

the wind is what I believe in,
the One that moves around each form
Veteran, by Fanny Howe

I eat breakfast, watch t.v. 

while I think about the nurses 

Uand doctors in protective gear
on Mondays, Wednesdays,

and Fridays.

The wind reaches
into the pockets of the night,
sails through hospital corridors
I don't recognize, deserted
emergency rooms I had never seen
where promises are paid 

with more promises, and lies 

are the substitutes 

for more lies.

My keys draw lines of fire 

on the counter in the bar 

near my house. They're

building nationalist utopias,
banishing unmasked, 

unprotected, racist women protesting 

in front of the White House.

My job is my father’s old job,
I write the newspaper headings,

pour more salt on my tequila, 

stare at each individual crystal,

frighten away old precipice birds.


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