In response to Trump, a poem I woke up with this morning:

You are the Chosen One

You who are reading this
yes you, with the lower back pain
who could’ve slept better
who spoke up in vain
without triumph
or gain.

You who messed things up
with the ex
who didn’t want sex
or wanted too much
or wanted different things
who couldn’t get it right
with the kids
though you tried,
even the dog
prefers the ex—
and dogs don’t lie.

You, with the mortgage
who hasn’t yet figured out
how to live your best life
and find your bliss;
you with the cold sore
and the old sores
you still haven’t healed,
after all that self-help
and feng shui
that didn’t
chase the dark away.

You with the broken inner child
who rages inside,
who presents as polite
so as not to offend
or get in a fight
still tied to your
boardroom stockings
and throat-gagging tie
who checks the budget
twice a week
who can’t yet retire.

You who worries about the rain forests
and if the kids will still have
a world tomorrow
when you wake up,
treacherous with sorrow.

You, powerless
to fix what’s broken,
who smiles at cats on YouTube
with so much unspoken.

In this hour,
in this time,
without ego or gun,

You, dear soul, are the chosen one.

~