a sonnet: On Donald's America

On Donald’s America

His claims as crudely false as they are vile;

Hatred of progress called a fear of crime;

He grants his foll’wers license to spew bile,

To shout and rage and smash, time after time.

Unable to speak truth save for the hate

Of Muslims, women, blacks—all “not like me;”

The one firm promise?  To erect a gate

Slammed shut on masses yearning to breathe free.

Yet is this new?  Changed only is the broken

Record-blaring of the hate they truly mean;

Which was before but whispered, never spoken:

Dark hints like: “Willie Horton!”  “Welfare queen!”

Thus dare I hope the turning of the wheel--

For fest’ring sores must burst before they heal.