There Is no Escaping Donald Trump

To step outside of it is no more possible
than for a fish to walk on shore, and enter
The Flintstones. There is no other world,

besides the next rerun to carry your work
to a successful conclusion. Or Step by Step
to crown it all after a Full House with bases loaded.

It was the bottom of the 9th when the Big Bambino
stepped up to the plate, coughing up your exertions.
I could run with that. At this present moment, a palpable

Whack!–Pow!–Wham!–to the midsection.
Thank God It’s Friday, my Grandmother
on a Sunday replies from the nursing home.

There’s nothing to watch but idle curiosity
burying itself, and when, from the oval office,
we get an answer, the answer’s nothing more

than a joke as for why we’re here, turning the dials
on this ringing mechanism for Batman to answer
his phone. Then, of course, it’s best to run

from the telephone, before hearing a sound
of the coachman smoothing out footprints
with a broom. How the situation’s in reality

we really don’t know.

 
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