I’m writing this one from the bottom up.
A form of wishful thinking, mon ami,
considering the tea leaves in my cup
are clearly spelling out “AUTONOMY”
as in, “You’re on your own. Don’t let the door…”
etcetera. Outside, I’m in a slump.
The air, oppressive as an old pogrom.
The News lampoons another side of Trump,
the Post comes dropping like a dirty bomb,
and with the likelihood of civil war
I’m calling in for reinforcements, stat—
whoever’s on the transom doesn’t copy.
My phone is dying. And I’ve noticed that
the counter girl at Champs who calls me Papi
doesn’t call me Papi anymore.