How America Was Prophetically Trumped
The future came in repeated vignettes
of still life at dawn, scenes, soundbites
captured in a box anchored on a wall.
Origins of misplaced assurances to
final arrival of deftly creeping panic.
Behind the flat vile reductions only
a bloated carcass crowned, the mange of
golden straw, a least compelling narcissism.
That thing that could not, would not happen.
Barely palpable, on that morning we never quite
prepared for when a table was set and a round
room was painted something other than blue.
The future arrived at dawn, a deafening yet
silent refrain un-assuaged by weak reflexive
summations of hindsight’s inelegant arithmetic.
On that November dawn it came to America
solemn oaths were taken, big bands played
throughout the day and a poet laureate
envisioned changing orders, a fresh
invigorated nation, where wagers were
placed on overwhelming odds her dress
would be fire engine red.