We’re rusting inside ourselves
like autos dumped in the woods,
stripped of their useful parts.
But we needn’t mourn ourselves.
Our slow oxidation is normal.
We join the crowd at the rally
and hold up signs so passing
motorists will honk approval
or shout loutish obscenities
that make us giggle like schoolkids.
Somewhere in a secure airspace
the President lifts his muzzle
and howls for the sake of howling.
He flaunts the brazen secrets
normal people should despise.
While our anonymous faces
and homemade cardboard signs
shimmer in the icy background
he lunges at himself in mirrors
and laughs when he cracks the glass.
The chill keeps us zippered inside
parkas this climate requires.
Bulked out, we become islands
of human warmth, sharing
from a safely sterile distance
while the dusk pours over us
in the drabbest possible hues.
William Doreski
William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent book is Riding the Comet.