I kept telling myself, I have to be here, because I don’t have/ a country.
How tight is the string?……………………………………….. Ted Berrigan
Second day of a late nor’easter, grey pall in May. Wednesday’s child
is full of woe, Wednesday’s night is full of wrong, GOP quislings meet
in the dark to cut the string of a safety net that, as it was, barely held.
Medicare, Medicaid, V.A. trashed so billionaires get tax cuts.
If the children of the poor die, it will be their parent’s fault.
As for the elderly, stubborn things want health care just for staying alive.
This has nothing to do with the Clown King who keeps saying, “I don’t know.”
Populist nihilism turns fascist. More than half the country is in on this.
They, too, want everyone dead, off the street, out of the country, dumped in Libya.
Or South Sudan. They find the Clown King’s clever solutions amusing.
On Wednesday, he was having a very good morning, his bribe plane finally
flown in from Qatar. He hadn’t said a word, the Qataris just gifted him with it.
Wednesday night, the Republicans work hard untangling knotted strings
even though their constituents need these benefits like oxygen. One thing
gives the old ones pause: the crass openness of the Clown King’s corruption.
He’s capped his day with a meme coin dinner/grand opening of his “private citizen”
crypto account. Aides explain block chain secrecy to the old guys who don’t say boo.
The presidency’s up for sale. Thank God, no brown paper bags like Spiro Agnew.
No one bats an eye for Abrego-Garcia anymore. Due process meets tornado news cycle.
A story gets legs and in three days loses traction, actual humans left weeping in its wake.
No one keeps track of all the court orders Trump has defied except Norm Eisen.
Thursday, third day the foul nor-easter hangs round, second day of perfidy.
I wake to read an email from Indivisible. Hidden deep in the reconciliation bill:
A single line exempts Trump from ever being held in contempt of court.
Okay, I don’t have a country. Okay, this isn’t a poem either. The bill calls for
no ban on gun silencers. (The one thing Trumpers agree is unconstitutional,
when the leading cause of death for children in this country is guns.)
I told Benj, I didn’t know how to write a poem on due process. But this isn’t a poem, nope.
This might be a letter to a future reader who asks, How did they let it happen?
We’re the they. No reconciling, only things worsening. How tight is the string?