Only the Best
Words Are Good Enough for You
You say you’ll
make America terrific; you said so
over and over
again. Surely by now you
understand how
quickly parties end, how
first love
dies, how fires flare and burn, ferocious,
until nothing
is familiar anymore?
Chris Hadfield
knew his path when he was nine,
knew he had to
be an astronaut. When was your first
inkling you’d
be the brat who grew up
not to be
lauded for floating in space,
guitar in hand,
singing Bowie, but for
dragging a
once-proud nation into a swamp?
I don’t know
who will speak for us,
croon away our
worries, soothe our sorrows while you,
king of kraken,
squire of sordid, overseer of odious,
write off the
cautious progress we fought so hard for,
apologia,
politesse and reason being just a few more things you’ll
drown like
kittens in the trough of your miasma.
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