Some will look for a way out, an end to history;
the woman who swallowed pills,
was rushed to the ER with an inked note
pinned to her sad, sallow blouse:
DO NOT RESUSCITATE if Donald Trump wins.
That was November, 2016. My doctor-friend had
his orders: she won; she doesn’t have to relive
the second debacle. Mother, who flirted with
The Donald as cream to hot coffee,
as pretzels are drawn to bloody Mary.
He hit on a babysitter brought to her party –
snubbed Mother when she quit his club.
Lothario of the quivering ego— he never spoke
to her again. What would she, acid commentator
of petty tyrants and babies – i.e., men’s totality –
now say? She too is spared the indignity.
My letter carrier’s card-carrying union father kicked
before Nov. 5th. Spared again.
No reason to leave this beautiful world just yet.
The deep processes of awareness unfinished.
The blanks & pits & recommitment.
Painful radiance will survive.