Election night, and sick
as a dog. Something

I ate. Easy to tell
when a thing has gone

rancid, but hard
to tell when it hides

what it is.
Take the medicine,

stay hydrated,
wake up to see

what’s become
of the world,

if it has returned
to what was great,

for some, who could
afford it, and looked

just right. And then
those dumb appetizers,

shit on a platter,
too seasoned with hate,

too stuffed with anger,
to know that they’re being

served up. Croquettes
for the new Emperor.

Or Rey, or Führer.
And old Moctezuma,

still getting
his revenge–