Do you remember that summer,
the tv on till the National Anthem
signaled the snow of static
and quiet, and we’d sleep easy, 
then wake to see if he’d slunk away,
or was still baring his teeth to fight?
We knew either way,
Nixon was roadkill.
Now the thief in chief
is more Wendigo than weasel.
He says he could shoot us down
in the streets and survive.
And he could.
At night I mute my phone
and switch on an old mystery show
to see justice served in the end.
I miss you.
You wouldn’t want to be here.