I've mentioned before how writing mean poetry has been one of my coping mechanisms since childhood, especially for processing impotent rage. I wrote this poem the morning after the US presidential election. It's based on a real experience I had that day. If you're a Trump supporter, avert your eyes now -- I can promise you won't like it.
Today an old man at the school I did spy.
He edged around trying to catch someone's eye.
When no one heeded, he blasted aloud,
"Nice weather today." A nod from the crowd.
Then next he said what he'd come there to do:
"Nice weather, and a nice ELECTION end too!"
This actually happened; it isn't a joke.
No one under fifty acknowledged he spoke.
"Clinton's a crook and an insider too!
Trump wants a wall -- he'll know what to do!
Bengazi and Email! The Vietnam War!
I know what is what here! I'm 74!
"I too ran a business; we're mostly the same.
I know he's successful 'cause I know his name.
He could have retired -- he's 70 too!
He's fighting for us though, a patriot true.
"It wasn't for me that I voted this way.
My kids and grandchildren -- they'll thank me one day.
He had a TV show. He'll know what we need.
I like that he's rich and he can't really read."
The old man then nudged me. A push to reply.
But still I said nothing. You're low. I go high.
I stepped to avoid him, not wanting a fight,
But also I'm nervous -- he's old, male, and white.
They say to be kind to both sides of the aisle,
That we can have friends whose beliefs are quite vile.
Dear reader, I just don't see how that can be.
My friends respect women and Muslims and me.
If you don't respect me, or people of color,
If you're a racist or a lady-mauler,
Then you are scary, and you are wronger
And hopefully you will not be here much longer.
You're probably stupid and probably white.
You're probably old, and I'm probably right.
You're probably male and -- if you're a lady --
You're likely self-hating and possibly crazy.
You make bad decisions; don't try to deny it.
But when we're in person, I will be quiet.
I don't want to fight you, your dog, or your gun.
I don't want to hear it; he's already won.
YOU haven't won though, of that I am sure.
Your whiteness comes easy, but you'll still be poor.
He doesn't love you. He wanted the crown.
Your job's still gone elsewhere; your doctor's still brown.
But you lit the match (and a few matching crosses),
You'll feel "great again" while the sane count our losses.
I'll tell you the truth and I won't spare my ire:
I hope you die in your own dumpster fire.