A glimmering smidgeon of hope
has stalled the collapse
of our grand society,
through the execution of
a well-phrased debate that should
–by all measures–sway
the undecided and worry the supporters
of the crass, unprepared and
otherwise unsavory candidate
who spits rhetoric and bluster,
pretending to exert authority
over an arena completely new to him.

But nobody’s opinion will change.
Rabid contrarians will lick his wounds
and claim he doesn’t need experience
to control the (downward) trajectory
of this global hierarchy. He’ll be fine,
they say. He’ll bully others into
doing his bidding, since it’s worked
so well in his past endeavors.

A sucker’s born every minute, and
somehow each one of them
is old enough to vote,
come Super Tuesday.


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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