Poetry from Patricia Doyne


		Catsup bleeding down the wall,
		shattered lunch plate on the rug…
		The old man’s angry.
		Sometimes he throws glassware.
		Sometimes, yanks a tablecloth.
		Meals spiral to the floor--
		a sodden mess of fries and gravy,
		cracked cups, pasta-coated flowers,
		and one lone ice cube rolling to a halt.
		Take that, you wimps!

		That old man’s anger is fierce.
		Smash!  Crush!  Crucify!
		Call my lawyers!  Sue the bastards!
		Get revenge.
		Like a child, he can be distracted,
		but he holds a smoldering grudge.

		Barr, the Attorney General 
		who hushed up Muller’s report
		won’t knuckle under this time.
		Finds no evidence of election fraud,
		and tells the world on prime time.
		Damn the man!  You’re fired!
		Firing’s not enough—
		flings crockery
		while minions cower.

		This angry man refuses to lose.
		Calls a mob to D.C.,
		winds them up with lies,
		ignites them with his thirst for revenge.
		But the crowd’s not big enough,
		not yet bragging-sized.

		So he tells Secret Service to ditch weapons-              
                detectors, let everyone in. 
		“They’re not here to hurt me.”

		The volatile man unleashes his mob,
		says he’ll join them at the Capitol.
		Plans a speech on the steps,
		or perhaps in Congressional chambers
		where Pence is receiving electoral votes.
		But the Secret Service driver has orders.
		Can’t guarantee safety amid an armed riot.
		So the angry man lunges.
		One hand grabs the steering wheel;
		the other, the driver’s throat.
		Furious.  Desperate.
		He needs to be there at the Capitol
		to browbeat Pence,  threaten Senators,
		make them all submit to his army of thugs.
		They need to see his power.

		Driven home instead, he sends an angry text
		naming Pence as enemy.
		Rioters broadcast the text,
		erect a scaffold,
		go hunting.
		Aides send many panicked phone calls.
		Says the angry man, “Maybe he deserves it.” 

		This is the man with a nuclear button.
               that would yank the rug out from under those            
		Then they’d be sorry.
		This man is ready to explode.

                CARTOON OF THE WEEK

		Behind the barricade, a crowd heats up;
		seethes with fury, eager to lash out.
		The young suit on the safe side feels their vibes:
		tense—like an aimed bow, ready to fire.

		Walking towards the Capitol doors, 
		he raises high a fist--a sign:  I’m with you.
		You’re Trump’s army, but you’re also mine. 
		And our side has the power. We will win.

		The mob responds with shouts, and starts to push.
                The doors, now closed and locked, hide dire      
		a nation’s ballots have deposed their idol.
		This cannot be allowed. Trump says he won,

		and he speaks as a man chosen by God,
		a golden man who favors billionaires,
		is praised by evangelicals, and those
		who trust his words and never ask for proof.

		The outraged crowd becomes a forward surge—
		smashing windows, clubbing cops, a rout…
		They swarm inside, checking floorplan maps,
		looking for Pence and Pelosi, armed and grim.

		Congressmen who gathered to do their job
		fear and flee.  But look—down one long hall,
		a suited figure sprints, hell-bent for safety.
		Now they’re not his mates. They lust for blood.

		The man who raised his fist to these rough troops
		is running for his life. A video clip
		preserves his panic for posterity--
		with sound track.  Lilting music cheers him on.