The post office won’t open for another 8 hours, but I’m all ready for the Ides of Trump.
I gathered faded postcards I’d hoarded for decades, from a solo trip to Ireland, a day at the Bonnard exhibit at MOMA with my mother, an afternoon at the Jumel Mansion with my friend Julietta, a trek to the swamps of Jersey for a high school reunion, a hitchhiking tour through Brittany in my reckless days.
I’m slow and ponderous lately and writing seems more difficult than ever, so it took me weeks to get these done, a few at a time. The limited space forced a stinginess with words, but I added “naïve,” “appalling,” “aghast,” “corrupt,” “irrational” “small-minded” “petty” “vindictive” and “wrong-headed” in voicing my opinion of the administration’s bizarre and unskilled ideas on health care, immigration, women’s rights, climate change, and separation of church and state.
I tried to be serious and thoughtful, but couldn’t keep that up, unable to resist writing one congratulatory postcard to the president for being named Kremlin Employee of the Year.
Yesterday as I drove to my monthly writers’ group I was thinking ashamedly of how little I write lately. I was wishing I’d had the skill to write a haiku on each of the 39 postcards I’ll mail on the Ides of March. I did come up with one, a lousy homage to Tricky Dick Nixon who, while stridently opposed during his administration, almost seems like a fine fellow in comparison:
Spinning in his grave
Your disgraced predecessor
Pities us all now