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.
