I'll sit here with the dog and get drunk. I don't believe that
Things will get better. The moron caudillo, the slobbering
Masses, the suited, two-bit lowlifes who'd happily wager
Their futures, and all of ours, for another check and a place
In the country, even as everything turns to ash, conspire
To stay up. They'll float on the bodies of black folks
And refugees, women, queers, but the dreadful tectonics
Of human existence, each plate, as it crumbles, subsumed
By another, assures that they'll sink without notice, replaced
By the next batch of monsters, who I will greet warmly,
Traitorous, mostly just drunk.