“So whaddaya think of the new head cover?”
He was a sweet man.
Always called you by the name.
A bright smile across his face with the slight corny nature of an aging man.
“TRUMP GOLF” was embroidered, smack dab on the cover.
I worked for a Trump supporter today, and he took care of me.
I don’t know how to feel about it.
Reassuring words of “professionalism” ring in response,
But isn’t that an enemy in the first place?
After 10 years of North Brookfield tugging on my mother,
She finally succumbed towards the middle.
The TV is the lexicon, creation exists in her deft, colorful baskets
But the previous compassion has been weathered away by a decade of mistreatment.
There are good people in my life,
Blessings in human form,
Full of toxins that have deep-fried the azures and scarlets and oranges
From their souls.
I can feel my skin bubbling, and I’m submerged. Back in the first parts of home.
I fear how strong my self-interest is becoming, how it dominates conversations.
Partly because I’m afraid to ask how you’re doing.
I know you’re good. I don’t want to contribute to that rinse/repeat small talk.
But how do I engage outside of that?
I need to kick back. Open the sacrum, see through my real eyes.
Keep reading that Post-Colonialist literature.
Keep writing with the focus of empathy.
Never let the generation of entropy get you down, or be forgotten about.
That’s my code.