on that day

on that day
when we can barely hear ourselves think
for the pealing of church bells
the cheering of crowds
when the pubs are full
and the street parties last
till every bottle’s empty
and the sun is crawling over the rooftops
for the third time

when we wake on strangers’ sofas
on buses and in parks
face down on tables in the kitchen
of houses in towns at the other end of the country
clutching the keys to someone else’s car
with no idea how we got there
praying to god for alka-seltzer
muttering we’ll never drink again

then
we’ll know we were there
wherever it was
whoever we were with
whatever it was we did
(or didn’t do)
on that day
that blessed day
when Donald Trump learned to love himself

not
the late-at-night-behind-closed-doors self-loving
in front of the laptop
not the live-streamed-from-a-Moscow-hotel-room self-loving
where the girls do that thing he loves
make the right encouraging noises
and never draw attention
to his tiny desperate hands

no
not that
cast that image from your mind

seriously
cast it further

on that day
that happy day
the stars and the planets find some new alignment
butterflies flutter in joyful formation
over the last patch of rainforest
and the gods of all the major religions
pause from their eternal game of paintball
shrug their shoulders
decide to toss us a bone

and so it is
on that glorious day
locked in the bathroom with his morning stink
Donnie pauses before the mirror
as he washes his hands
and sees for the first time ever

not the coward who dodged the draft
not the braggard who has no friends
not the mediocre businessman
propped up by daddy’s money
not the misogynist who lacks the balls
to make amends
not the climate-change denier
not the birther
not the racist
not the instinctive liar
who tweets bullshit with no basis
not Putin’s little puppet
not the purveyor of fake news
not the most inadequate of presidents
unable to fill others’ shoes

instead
he sees the lost child he once was
the dreams he once harboured
the readiness to see the best in others
the happiness and innocence and hope
and Donald drops to his knees
by the toilet bowl and sobs
among the splash stains and the soap
picks up his phone and types

I AM SO FUCKING SORRY.

and across the planet
the party starts
seven billion people giving it large
on the terrestrial dancefloor
pensioners necking more booze
than you could ever shake their stick at
gangsters loved up on pills and purple hearts

on day two, things got so crazy
we even let Theresa May join in
and as the pair of us sat round a fire
doing tequila slammer
after tequila slammer
after tequila slammer
after tequila slammer

with the stars twinkling overhead
she took another crafty toke and said

comrade, be realistic
about what this does
and doesn’t mean
– I leaned in to hear her
above the din of marching bands
let’s not forget
it’s one very small step

but it’s still bigger than his tiny hands.

© Steve Pottinger. 29 Nov 2017

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