The Atlantic
A poem for the end of Donald Trump’s presidency
You came in to the sound of oligarch chuckles
and bullies at gas stations cracking their knuckles.
And now, now that every trigger finger is itchy,
you’re going out like an exorcised Liberace.
Hectic, comedic, toxic, alone, a flaming meringue on a tide of brimstone.
How we adored your escapades.
We swallowed your words like ghosts swallowing grenades.
The dusty construction guy made common cause
with the lawyer licking his paws
and the bearded militiaman with a maggot in his brainstem.
A riot of their own, that’s what you gave them.