On the house trimmed in neutral tones
there’s a large Christmas wreath
four feet wide with fat lights
mounted over a second story window
blaring out-of-season cheer, but
there’s the little tail
sticking out from the right
and now it’s plain to see
this isn’t a holiday leftover
but the oddball letter of the family
bringing new meaning
of hostile proclamation


Among the tidy ranches
a declaration to the neighbors
an embrace of a cartoon madness
with dark forces in pizza shop basements
and DC offices of the deep state
and a lie-spewing white knight
descended from a Manhattan tower,
of falling for anonymous promises
that you, dweller of this house,
are one of the good ones
and the status you never lost will be restored.  
How long is your seething
in suburban comfort?