I didn’t start out to include Trump in my end of year poem. He’s taken up enough psychic space during the past four years, and I need a complete break from him. But my poetry self apparently had unfinished business, leaving me with the following poem, “Recycling,” which speaks for itself!

 

Recycling  

Given that 2020 is etched

in our thoughts as one

of our worst years,

it’s no wonder many

want to escape

its final days and land

 

in a new world where Covid 19

and Trump no longer need hosts

to feed off and have been sidelined

—maybe forever.

 

We already knew how felonious

he is, yet it doesn’t matter to millions

who voted for him. They actually drank

the kookaid they call love

and adore this grifter.

 

How strange to be reading

Obama’s wise governing memoir

amidst this end-of-year craziness, Trump

encaged in his wrath, unable to escape

Obama’s shadow. Trump’s the one

born somewhere else—some Trumpland

—who finally found a home

he didn’t build or own

but doesn’t want to leave.

 

We’ll be asking for years

how such a flawed human

ended up our president, how so many

were taken in by

—the bullshit

—the boasting

—the big

—the beautiful

—the best

—the brightest

—the babble

—the babyishness

—the backbiting

—the beebrain

—the bigot.

 

Then I ask myself, “Why give him

the spotlight in this poem

when I want to focus

on how inexplicable it is to be sitting

in sunny Northern California, basking

in its beauty and my own

good health, thriving

 

on unknown shoppers’ filling

my grocery lists, and the great food

filling our cupboards and fridge,

the streaming of Berlin Philharmonic,

and other musical greats, feeding

my deeper needs?”

 

I have my own bubble

to hunker down in. I can forget

that days turn into years and the end

of this year, like any other, will pass by

in this endless cycle.