The first bit of Trump’s second term
as a dream after a spicy late night
snack with a glass of milk.
I’m an adult, I’m back
in the home I grew up in.
The place that doesn’t exist anymore
and everyone remembers differently.
Outside the yard is overgrown
and filled with signs, written insults
directed at the neighbors.
There is a storm inside the house
and rainwater is filling the walls.
There was a brown skinned boy
hiding in the kitchen cabinets,
a little migrant refugee
playing dual roles.
He is fading leaving an
empty spot to later
be filled by guilt.
Right now though,
I’m in a rush frantic
to get to my government job
but I can’t find my socks
and pants have become
impossibly complicated
like wrapping a cactus in tissue.
Then a sickly child
with downy yellow feathers,
the head of a chicken,
and corduroy bib overalls
walks past where I am
floundering in a pool
of navy blue socks and slacks.
This little chicky in his Easter outfit
peels back the faux wood panels
of my old bedroom
still filled with hand-me-downs.
I expect an empty tomb
but instead misshapen rats
wet and screeching
are climbing the rafters within
the cavernous crawl space.
I wake up to the alarm.
Charon’s Lyft
In the afterlife,
there is no longer a ferry
across the river Styx
you have to grab a rideshare
over that rainbow bridge
in a dank hatchback
with towels on the seats
and every possible phone charger
except the one you need.
They’ll stick you
in middle back
with three people
you can call ex
tho your said stop is next.
They will talk about you
without saying it’s you
but everyone knows
you are the one
from the story.
It’s your ass,
that’s butt of the joke.
When you do finally
arrive, pay the fare,
stumble and climb
over her and her
over laps and purses
out onto the curb,
you’ll swear
that the last thing you heard
was your name
and laughter
hanging in the air.
Jonathan S Baker is just like you in all the ways that matter. They are the author of several collections of poetry and the host of Poetry Speaks, Indiana’s longest running poetry series.
