In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice. I have published poems in the spring 2015 Bellevue Literary Review, Love & Ensuing Madness, and Front Porch Review.
I hiked into the Trump Tower in search of my
newly relocated hairdresser, in search of her new salon,
going and regoing up and down the tangerine escalator.
Golden dolphins flipped and reflipped in the
florescent glowing waterfall pool.
I took Doritos from my backpack, threw them to the dolphins,
but they tweeted they wanted #goddamnGodiva;
I felt my L.L.Bean orange down vest and matching sneakers
were maybe inadequate for all this gold and black beauty.
When I finally found her on the 68th floor (58th in reality),
I was so close to the rhinestone stars, I could be in heaven,
or more likely Hell.
I was eating vegetarian pad thai
because I don’t believe in eating my fellow animals.
Moths were flitting round the TV which made it
hard to see, but I think almost any creature
has the right to live, except maybe deer ticks.
They crawl on my bed, jump on my neck,
bite like mini-vampires.
On TV, the second presidential debate.
Hillary smiled, eyes wide open like sunflowers.
Trump loomed behind her, slitty eyes,
shook his head, marched in smaller and faster circles.
That was eight weeks ago, seems like a century.
Today is 11/9 but it feels like 9/11. Fear makes me
yearn to wrap myself in my deep blue sleeping bag,
or grab my wings and escape to the superbright moon.
The TV casts a paralytic spell on me.
It is one in the morning, then two, three,
four, five. Pundits predicted an easy walk
on the sunny beach for Hillary.
Not orange slime winning!
Now I plummet into a stinky sinkhole
with the Trumpeter. The smell of feces
almost knocks me out.
Then I remember, remember,
my friends and I are rainbow eagles of the Sixties.
If something goes wrong, like nefarious Nixon,
we swoop down from the shuddering clouds,
no matter how many orange werewolves
snipe at us on the road.
We sing “America, the Beautiful”
and fix it!
©2017 Catherine Wolf
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