any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.

we’ve boosted a car and got the motel room
frozen pizzas, hair dye, wigs, and thrift shop clothes
borrowed a wheelchair
and photoshopped a fake ID
to turn you into someone no-one knows

we’ve got friends across the country
in condos, backwoods, cities, and on farms
in schools and universities and ghettos
who’ll shelter you and keep you safe from harm

we’re ready

and when the Secret Service agent
who has a mother, sister, daughter, lover
who believes in the dream
who knows this will mean a desk job
in a back office in a one-horse town
with no horse for the rest of his days
and who doesn’t care

when he looks the wrong way at the right moment
and you exit stage left pursued by no-one
slip into the back seat of a car that turns right
at the lights and is gone

then, Melania, then and only then
as you sit on a motel bed
munching on a slice of margherita
waiting for the dye to take
designer clothes stuffed in a bin-bag by the door
wearing someone else’s cast-offs
that pinch and sag, are nowhere near your size,
and the smile your mama taught you
creeps back to light your eyes

then, your life begins.

and when the fat toad in his gilded rage
screams his fury in one hundred and forty
characters of CAP LOCK
and proclamations of revenge

then we will tweet him in our thousands


© Steve Pottinger. 27 January 2017

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