Welcome to the Third World

A friend from one of those Shithole places tells me 
she’s worried. Am I sick? Depressed? I’ve lost 
my mischievous smile. She’s listened to my laments: 
Confederate flags in the Capitol, the moving sidewalks 
speeding backward—away from one person, one vote, 
women’s control of our bodies, checks 
and balancing blahblahblah. When Trump was elected 
she told me he was Gaddafi. Now she smiles kindly, Welcome 
to the Third World! Tells me to stop counting on Hollywood 
endings and promises made in ninth grade Civics.
 

She and another friend once laughed and snapped 
my photo: making pancakes for them on a Sunday morning 
in the kitchen of my wooden house. Like in American films.
 

Tells me hope is there, just not where I’m trained to look.

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Published: February 19, 2025