Breath of a Salesman
(in the "Standard" 14-line Sonnet style)

No one will speak with us, and for good reasons.
They understand quite clearly what they ought:
that Trump’s more like Roy Cohn than Wallace Stevens;
by Red-baiter, not poet, was he taught.
No matter if a year had four more seasons
Trump still could not complete a simple thought.
So how does one negotiate with missing?
with absent (meaning “no one home right now”).
Who speaks to Trump who calls for his ass-kissing
by foreign leaders told they must kowtow?
And why does all Trump’s talk sound like snakes hissing?
Are rattlers now the U. S. sacred cow?
And does what Trump calls his “Administration”
concern not work but Rich Boy recreation?

Incompetence, venality, and ego.
A felt-tip pen: “Look Mommy, I can write!”
Does Trump suppose that He can charge where we go?
(since “we” means all the World he has in sight.)
Like Herman Melville’s character Tashtego
who’d get more credit were he only white,
Trump’s sailors (the enlisted ranks) must wonder
who possibly might save them from their plight.
Must they go hungry for Trump’s unforced blunder?
(in saying “Yes!” when Israel said “Fight!”).
Or, must they kill and die for Donald’s plunder?
(and Israel’s, let’s not forget who’s “bright”).
So, Moby Dick, The Dollar: Donald’s Great White Whale
for Oligarchs a tiny tempest of a tale.

Irrelevant, it seems, we have been branded
by our own arrogance and self-conceit.
With each new war we come up empty handed,
despite our double-dealing and deceit.
In consequence of this we must be candid
and squarely face the facts of our defeat.
The world will now move on in new directions
as well it should, post-Trump, perhaps renewed,
while we in the U. S. await elections.
Perhaps with them some sense will have accrued
to citizens demanding real corrections:
no wars, just Healthcare, good jobs, homes, and food.
The Global Oligarchy must be brought to heel.
It sold a bill of goods. Now past time to get real.