We sit with Trump
enthusiasts, Elbow, Sister and I.

Oh, Elbow, calm down.

Sister knows their hard-shelling and
underneath darkness,
deep and deeper.

In that gloom, they have been spewed with
bile, fountained by vomit, betrayed by
physics and chemistry.

They have tribaled protection, struck
out as they have been
struck, spittled.

We sit at their table, our table,
breathe the bitter
air, acrid touch.

Look! On Clark Street, middle-age
boys walk hand-in-hand,
dating by sidewalk, having fought off the bile.

Little Sister fought
off the venom voices,
her own.

Under MAGA hat, the woman coaches Little
League well. She passengers
the lost, cold, thin man,
thin coat, outside the church in snow after
midnight Mass, drives him where he needs to be.

In her pain, she
reaches for illogic—
when logic has betrayed.

In calm moments, she sings,
not out of tune, as sweet as the music
of any other saint or sinner.