After Emily Dickinson

A monster is the President,
we’re parted from our friends.
Our very self then breaks apart,
adrift our country ends.

The monster shrugs back to his den,
we’re salvaged by our friends.
Our common wealth, our heart, gets healed,
at last the warfare ends.

I woke once more, I was not dead
but found the monster grown.
Then in the funeral in my head
the monster made his home.


                                         3rd   June 2019

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