Boris and the Donald have their kiddie curmudgeons.
They are anything but love muffins.
They actually are like little demons — one does whump
around Great Britain and the other one hisses and kisses the occupant’s rump.
They even look alike: two bald-headed, devious, young twerps
with power to cause damage
to everyone and in ways great democracies work —
devilish twins who take umbrage
with everything they oppose
while shining their bosses’ nose.
They are two demons the Devil chose —
the wannabe dictators’ two kiddie curmudgeons.

The author wrote something like, “You have to know
the car engine is smoking, there are puddles of oil on
the ground, the hood is blazingly hot. Would it take a
car mechanic to tell you something is wrong? Why
would it take a psychiatrist’s personal interview
to conclude the occupant was crazy?” Well? “We’re
Just after the facts, ma’am.” according to Sergeant
Friday, “and maybe an analogy or two.”

He trimmed the large bush
with a small handsaw. It made
minimal noise while
his neighbors with earplugs used
belching, roaring gas machines.

Worry when she saw
The Rose of Sharon bush trimmed.
The bush will fill in.

The man keeps tilting at windmills.
If he sees cyclists without helmets,
he minds his own business even
though he knows such riding isn’t
safe, but the man saw a trim, fit,
young father riding a fine, expensive-
looking bike. He rode without a
helmet, but his little son, on his
own bike wore one. The man
thought to himself, Surely this
guy knows better. When the
cyclists stopped at the store,
the man said, “You should wear
a helmet. You’re sending a bad
message to your son.” “Hey,
buddy, stop trying to helmet
shame me.” Well, all righty then,
the man thought to himself. Then
he drove down a side street and
in front of him with her back to
the car walked a woman with
her fine-looking dog. The man
stopped and told her that the
dog was beautiful and followed
that with, “You should walk against
traffic.” The woman indignantly said,
“Why?” The man, incredulous, said,
“A distracted driver might come along
and run you and your dog down.”
She said, “Actually it is your
responsibility to watch out for us.”
Incredulity filled the air and the man
just drove off mumbling to himself,
“Well, all righty then.” He started
humming, “When will they ever learn;
when will they ever learn?”

The whole thing was extremely fraught
And the lame deal-maker was caught
With pants down and people asking “What’s Up!”
Preparation avoids that which does disrupt.

Dealmakers spend months and months
Negotiating and working out the bumps
Before they sit down to seal the deal.
Only then do they lift a glass and share a victory meal.

This administration continues to eat crow
As policies of lunacy continue to grow.
Carter belatedly was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize
For the Camp David Accords — an award that was wise.

This occupant gets the prize in the Cracker Jack box
Even though he delusionally postures being the deal-making fox.

The day before he died he looked like he weighed
a lot more than he did without the wind.
Just like that, he had become the stolid,
fifty-three-year-old mummy man.

Parchment thin layer of gray leather lay across his insides,
sinking in the cavities, covering the craters,
just bumps of bones; the edge of the chin fell off sharply
to the plane before his mountainous Adam’s apple.

Shoulders, chest, pelvis, feet created a contour map
under the rumpled, white sheet.
I trekked through the wilderness while
staring at the stillness.

He looked so light when
I saw him without the wind.
I thought a breeze
could blow him off the bed.

I turned to his red faced widow
filling the chair, flowing over.
I held her hand, felt the blood pulsing,
heard the rapid breathing, saw the tears running.

She opened her mouth,
drank the tears, ran her tongue
along her upper lip, smacked
and swallowed hard.

Her palm was warm, soft, sweaty.
She looked at him a long time.
Her hand trembled. She said,
“He looks thinner without the wind.”

“Deep in December, it’s good to remember
that without a hurt the heart is hollow.”
Even in September, it’s good to remember
hurts that fill a heart that’s hollow.
Even in May, it’s good to remember
hurts that change a callow fellow.
Even in July, it’s good to remember
a callow fellow who’s heart was hollow,
but whose heart was filled with sorrow
and, in September, a year later,
whose heart is now mellow.

She stares at the stone
     of her husband now dead seven years.
Heels sink in the soft earth; leather soles soak up moisture
     from the saturated soil.

A dry clod from the newly dug grave soon
     to be filled with her father-in-law’s oak casket
     sticks to Swedish red granite.
It covers the first letter in her late husband’s Christian name.
     She reaches out and flicks it away.

Twenty-six years of memories and an eternity
     of dreams slam against her heart
like a six-foot wave crashing upon the fine-grained sand
     of the beach back home.

Tears flood her eyes; sounds of sobs bounce
     off maples, elms, ash but not the weeping willow.
Wind whipped arms reach out and take the sounds unto itself
     as it has done so many times.

She stands between two worlds like straddling the whitewashed fence
     enclosing the country church’s cemetery.
Her husband of four years stands silently,
     behind, out of sight, nearby.

No doubt the earth will stay alive,
but one wonders whether we will survive
all the punishment we have caused
our home, which hangs on with open claws.

The oceans deal with all the plastic;
land deals with all that which is caustic.
The air wheezes so asthmatic.
The animal’s survival is problematic.

Everything still looks so good;
we are lulled into a good mood,
but appearances are ever so deceptive
and political reality is unreceptive

to anything that tells it like it is —
the truth which is perceived as the abyss
and so obfuscation is de rigor
until we, as a species, are no more.