a sonnet: On Donald's America
On Donald’s America
His claims as crudely false as they are vile;
Hatred of progress called a fear of crime;
He grants his foll’wers license to spew bile,
To shout and rage and smash, time after time.
Unable to speak truth save for the hate
Of Muslims, women, blacks-all “not like me;”
The one firm promise? To erect a gate
Slammed shut on masses yearning to breathe free.
Yet is this new? Changed only is the broken
Record-blaring of the hate they truly mean;
Which was before but whispered, never spoken:
Dark hints like: “Willie Horton!” “Welfare queen!”
Thus dare I hope the turning of the wheel--
For fest’ring sores must burst before they heal.