by Ralph Dranow
"Why do you like Trump?" I ask.
It's his first term.
Bill's pale forehead furrows,
bespectacled eyes twin fires.
"He's a strong leader and a successful capitalist.
I happen to like capitalism."
After a poetry reading at night,
we're drinking beer in a pizza parlor,
amidst a hum of conversation
and clatter of glasses and dishes.
We go on talking politics,
our voices civil
despite disagreeing on every issue.
But troubled, I wonder:
How can a nice, intelligent guy like Bill,
who's treated me tonight,
embrace a monster like Trump?
We part, shaking hands,
like two diplomats from countries
somewhat wary of each other,
neither friend or foe.
Later, at home, a detective in search of clues,
I reread Bill's poetry book,
and some of the lines cry out to me,
like forlorn children:
"Rage burns deeply inside me.
It always has."
"Alone and miserable.
Maybe I deserve it."
Politics fades away.
My heart opens its gates,
as I give Bill a long distance hug.
Ralph Dranow is an editor and poetry teacher.
