Nice Hair

Donald or Goldilocks,
the three bears have not been kind.
What's with your plastic stare, your hair?
Your mottled beak and harried feathers?
Where is your joy?
Why are you held aloft by a man
adorned in the attire of golf?
What of decorum? I'll not mention
your lack of clothes.
The pond with its reflection
mercifully recreating trees and light
ignores your obvious indiscretions.
Who taught you to tweet, to squawk?
How far afield am I in assuming it is more than
our national pride that you are bent on consuming?
That these shadows casting gray against your heart
are omens sent by the sun to warn us
and that the truth alone can warm our cold, cold blue.
I would wear jeans and stand pale in the light of global awareness.
I would mourn for the hollowness in your eyes
and cry for children in cages at the border.
I would feel shame to be so underdressed,
to stand in court with unadorned nature
and before God be laid bare.
No fig leaves can conceal our fetid awareness.
No physician can provide sufficient cure to reverse
the cancered lies. We wake up
and find another group marginalized.

Nice Hair

I see no walls but would if you insist
construct a cage.
I would do the Christian thing and reunite families,
set free our corporeal guilt...
Lure you in with pretty people and pussy cats.
Slam the door on a chapter of history,
a nightmare we could not bear repeating.
Looking to the sky, the clean air
I breathe for the first time in 4 years,
imagining that this failure in our national character
will be soon forgotten and never re-elected.