That is not what is happening.
Oh, and this next bitter poem is called All That Year,
and it happens to be dedicated to Cynthia Hogue, who
so nicely just introduced me.
All That Year
We were body surfing
A wave of public venom, attempting to swim.
It was terrific, thrilling.
Hate speech on the left and on the right.
We wondered, would it smash us into a reef?
On screen, our swaggering leader, man we elected
Man we elected
Loosed lies from his lips like eels.
It was a good moment for cartoonists and journalists
And billionaires and lovers of guns.
A good moment for poets.
Poets thrive on disaster,
Born as we are within the wound.