Es Ist Schon Spaet

Trump looked out the window
With growing dismay:
It was too wet and chilly
For golfing today!

He sat there and pondered,
As always, alone,
And felt no great urgings
To reach for his phone.

“Since what can I do
Which won’t just repeat
What I did at 4:30,
In that multipart tweet?”

So he pressed his long nose
Against the cold pane
And stared at the curtains
Of late summer rain,

Until he felt lulled
And was almost asleep
When the silence was cracked

He turned in his chair
(which was too small for him)
And there in the doorway:
Was his secret pal, Jim!

And not only Jim—
That alone would be luck—
But Jimmy was pedaling
A red fire truck!

He roared in and shouted
“I hear there’s a fire in
The West Wing—let’s douse it!”
And then hit the siren!

“I’ve got firemen’s hats
And boots—we’ll look funny
But who cares?” Then a tiny voice
Said, “Nein! Dere’s no money

In clowning around—
Dere is no time to shirk!
Donnerwetter, kleiner donny,
You get back to your work!”

But Jim laughed, “That’s living?
No way—oh, come off it!
Pursuit is for happiness here,
Not for profit!”
And when the voice rose
To turn into a yell,
Jim laughed all the louder
And jangled his bell!

“Tell Grossvater Fred
Zurueck! Go away!
We’re having some fun
On this cold, cold, wet day!”

Trump smiled at his buddy,
But shrugged, “I’m conflicted!
I’d love to have fun
But Fred wants you evicted

And I’ve always had voices
And sometimes they’ll holler
If I don’t keep my focus
On making a dollar,

And I’d like to have fun,
And not be so alone
With all of the millions of things
That I own,

But I…can’t, Jim, I can’t,
So it’s no use to try!”
And then one big teardrop
Rolled out of his eye.
So he turned to the window,
And heard, “Bye, then, don.”
And, when he turned back
Truck and Jimmy were gone

And all that remained
As the rain outside fell:
One last little tinkle
Of the fire truck’s bell

Which was lost
As his Grossvater made a loud snort,
“So, now you must make me
Your weekly report!”

As the rain sheeted down
For the rest of the day
And outside it grew dark–
it was too late to play.



To the sound of the glaciers,
All melting and cracking
Was added the sound
Of some diligent packing.

A yeti was deep
In his cave in the rocks,
Immersed in the sorting
Of t-shirts and socks.

“Whussup?” asked his cousin,
Tibetan Blue Bear.
But the yeti just gave
A deep groan of despair.

“Why down?” asked the bear
While he started arranging
His cousin’s dress shirts.
“Our whole climate is changing!”

Said the yeti. “Temp’s up now
By several degrees
And where there are pines,
Soon it’s coconut trees!

Yet you seem so calm—
Don’t you find this alarming?
Just think of Al Gore
On the subject of warming!”

Blue Bear gave a shrug.
“Seems to me the solution
Is easy—if you see this
As next evolution.

Don’t worry your head
If the mountains unfreeze!
Just look at it this way:
The ice floods the seas,

The seas rise and rise
Until they will reach
The edge of K2—
And your cave has a beach

and the climbers are gone,
Sherpas, too, off your turf.
Think Darwin: adapt—
Let’s both learn to surf!”


When you were small and had real hair,
And being lonely had no end,
You wished and wished and there he was:
Your so-much-longed-for secret friend.

Unlike your parents, distant folk,
Your friend was always there for you
And said, “Good job!” and “I’m so proud!”
When you’d tell him the things you’d do.

But, unlike secret friends for boys
Who grow away, no longer care,
Or find real friends as they mature,
Your secret friend was always there.

Sometimes he sounded just like you
But used a different name to call
The papers, leaking words of praise
And no one guessed—he fooled them all!

But, even with a different voice
and even with a different name
His thoughts, opinions, points of view
Were comfortingly just the same:

“The greatest speaker! Realty king!
A genius! Really, really smart!
So funny, too! And who would say
That you don’t have the biggest heart?

And when it comes to women, well,
You, donny, know you can be fussy
Since every chick gives in to you
When you approach them through the pussy.”

So through three weddings, kids, and deals,
Right there he was—to gently ease
Your mind when troubled with the press
Of six successive bankruptcies.

And all day long and every day,
You feel him now, when times are grim.
He is the rock on which you found
Your life, your secret buddy, Jim.

The Old Colossus

Her torch fell with a mighty splash.
The big green lady, with a crash
Sat down in such a sudden flurry
She nearly sank a passing ferry
And the book she dropped, which weighed a ton,
Sent tremors through nearby Bayonne.
“I’ve stood here, looking out to sea,
Till all of me is verdegris
and, in the snow and ice and drench
and pigeon shit, I’ve lost my French.
Still, as a lighthouse, I was sent
(but, being French, more elegant)
And, though the only job I’ve had,
I have to say, it wasn’t bad—
Until this dead-eyed balding goblin
Appeared and tried to do my job in
With floods of facts and little snarks,
Dog-whistles and veiled race remarks
Because his master’s one conclusion
On immigration is exclusion.
We take in folk from all the globe—
We always have—a xenophobe
Whose grandpa smelled of sauerkraut
Should think of that and not keep out
The immigrants or send them back
Because their skin is brown or black
(especially when—as can be seen—
His own skin is pale tangerine).
I’m here for all—no special passes
For those who don’t need English classes,
But those in need, fled here when war
Or prejudice brings them ashore—
Just as the poem says—it’s true!
And that, dear goblin, goes for you
Whose greatgrandparents came when young
And learned here how to speak the tongue
This new act would demand before
They joined us—something you ignore
As do the masses who support
That big-mouthed man whose memory’s short.
But now—I’m done! You’ve had your chance!
I’m emigrating–back to France!
We’ll see if there there still can be
Some folk who’re yearning to breathe free!”
With that, she stood and quickly waded
Into the bay and soon had faded,
The last thing seen from here in town
The top point of her sinking crown.

Working Hard in New Jersey

At four thirty-two, trump stood up from his chair
In Bedminster, waving his hands in the air.
“I’m busy!” he said to himself, “I’m so busy!
If anyone else, he would soon be so dizzy
He’d look like steve bannon with even less sleep.”
He walked to the window to take a quick peep
And frowned. “Looks like golf is out—what’ll I do?
Perhaps have a meeting? Make a phone call or two?
There’s that Mexican guy who says he’ll fund the wall
And Boy Scouts who say I’m best speaker of all
And there’s China—they’re desperate to hear what I think
About trade, North Korea—I need something to drink.”
He picked up the phone, “Hello?” Somebody spoke.
“So, send up some ice and a fresh Diet Coke.”
He glanced at his Rollex. “It’s four thirty-three—
No one gets as much done in a minute as me!
If mitch worked like I do, it’s perfectly plain,
ACA would be dead as the Clinton campaign!”
But the tv was talking. He looked at the screen
And his orange complexion began to turn green.
“Fake news! Failing Times!” Dropping into his seat,
With thumbs flailing wildly, he tapped out a tweet
And right at the end, as the byte count diminished,
He typed in four dots, showing he wasn’t finished
Then pounded away, “Mueller! Sessions! Witch hunt!”
Then “Hillary! MAGA!” Hitting “Send” with a grunt,
He sat back, exhausted. “It’s a wrap!” said d trump.
“I get so much more done when I’m out of that dump!”

Do You Believe in Magic?

Faux news and breitfart screamed all day
About a big discussion
Don junior had some time last June
In private with a russian.

They said the failing media
Was trying now to lump
This in their nothingburger
(lies for mustard) of d trump

And bots and hacks and putin
Pointing in the one direction:
that foreign interference
helped him win the last election.

But he just pushed the button,
Drank more coke, and then began
To sing this little ditty
To his counselor, Kellyanne:

“I have a secret strategy
Which helps me every day.
Whenever I need to disappear,
I hold my breath and say:

‘I’m not here,
I’m not there,
I’m not really
Look around:
It’s plain to see
I’ve got

It was a long, long time ago—
Don junior held a meeting.
(I almost missed it ‘cause I was
Involved in major tweeting!)

He had some Russians there, I think,
As nice as they could be,
And they brought presents: real good dirt
On Crooked Hillary.

Now junior’s office isn’t big
Or really nice, like mine,
But there was room and all of us
Including me, made nine,

But jared thought it would be wise
If no one knew that I
Was there—he said it would be best,
But wouldn’t tell me why.

I said that putin was my friend,
But jared shook his head,
And so, instead, I held my breath
And quietly I said:

‘I’m not here,
I’m not there,
I’m not really
Look around:
It’s plain to see
I’ve got

But now the lying media
Has stolen don’s e-mail,
And say that he colluded
And might even go to jail

And all because our russian friends
Were sent by my bro, Vlad,
To help us lock up Hillary—
K.A.—could that be bad?

But when my lawyers say that I
Might soon be implicated,
I laugh because I know that I
Won’t be investigated

‘Cause all I have to do I know
To keep me in the clear
Is say my magic words and so
Completely disappear!

‘I’m not here,
I’m not there,
I’m not really
Look around:
It’s clear to see
I’ve got
Invisibility.’ “


“So, junior d,” asked the Intel committee,
“If you lied to us now, it would be such a pity
To ruin your family’s good name for veracity—
So who all was there, please, in any capacity?”

“Well,” junior said, “I and kushie and paul
And, some Russian or other—but, really, that’s all.”
“No one else?” asked a senator, “just four of you?”
“Hmm. Let me think. No—that isn’t quite true.”

He glanced at his fingers. “Five, I think—and no more.”
“But a moment ago, you said there were four.”
“Four or five—what’s the diff? I’m not out to deceive—
And besides, kushie got up and started to leave,

Which left five.” “Five were left? But that means there were six.”
Junior d looked quite puzzled. “Is my mind playing tricks?
I was there, as was kushie, and paul for discussions
With three, maybe four, of those visiting Russians,

But paul used his i-phone, then he doesn’t count,
So eight, maybe nine, is the total amount.”
“So how many Russians were there all in all?”
“I’m not good with math—so you’ll have to ask paul,

But later he said—he’s a bit of a grouch–
That the ten of them crowded him right off the couch.”
“So far,” said a senator, “that makes thirteen.”
“Yeah. And paul said he felt like a goddamned sardine,

But there was still room for that crew from RT
And from Sputnik as well—so that makes twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three?” asked a senator. “Or perhaps twenty-eight—
I told you my math skills weren’t really so great.

It’s a small office, too—but it still fit them all
So nobody had to wait out in the hall
And we had enough chairs, so not one had to stand
And still there was room for that whole marching band.”

“Is that finally all? Are you sure of the count?”
“Yes, I think eighty-six is the total amount.”
“Eighty-six and that’s it? You’re totally sure?”
“Yes—no—wait—there was one more guy—that makes ninety-four.

He slipped in real quiet and stood by the door.
He nodded, because I had seen him before.
I don’t really know him—but I know he knows dad
And I think—I’m not sure—but I think his name’s vlad.”