Sixty-nine years, yet I’m still
dumbstruck when I read about
the buffoon and his clown
cadre, there behind closed
doors. I remind myself there
remain nights with stars that
beg to be adored, dogs so
loving I am absolved of shame,
friends so dear they steal the
morning paper from my stoop. 

But there are also truths so
true that sycophants make
their idiot bones by denial,
and there are documents
awaiting signature that might
as well be sharpened
knives. There are those in
rags who wait for them to
come for those rags, yet the
buffoon refuses to total the
price struck with the back of
his hand. 

There is an end to every
endeavor, at least I tell
myself so today, as the
buffoon once again
swaggers, Punch moving
on Judy like a bitch with
senile uncle harangues and
waggles of his Judas heart. 

At night I watch Hong Kong
and imagine such a
multitude marching,
marching to the buffoon’s
door. Together, we howl it
open. 

image: Jeremy Lishner Unsplash

Tom Barlow is an Ohio poet and fiction writer whose work has appeared in anthologies including They Said (Black Lawrence) and Best New Writing and journals including Hobart, Temenos, Forklift Ohio, Redivider, Your Daily Poem, and the Stoneboat Literary Journal.