Donald Trump
He moves through the world as if glass were soft,
as if breaking it made ome strange music.
Inside him, in fear small children crouch,
still waiting for the blow that came all to often.
His mouth twists around apologies
they he never learned to mean—
His tongue cut out his strange words
too tender to pronounce.
He could not touch without leaving fingerprints,
Never loved without counting debts.
Shame sits in his stomach like a stone,
hunger’s first twin, born of neglect.
He thinks that cruelty is power,
but it is only fear in costume—
a trembling god he never served
because no one ever taught him mercy.
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