I wish I was 100 years old
with something to say.
I’m not old enough to have any wisdom
nor is anyone knocking on my door
to canvas my vote
or ask me to switch my energy provider.
I’m not hallowed enough to be approachable
like the famous centenarians
with embossed letters
Sharpie-signed by the President,
or the Dictator,
or whoever is in charge of us now.
I could take up trash talk—
the language of division,
hatred,
exclusion,
nation-punishing tariffs,
megalomania.
Record a podcast of retribution ?
But the Greek gods have already
singled him out
for their kind of retribution.
Hubris merits the personal treatment.
And it will come.
And it will be permanent.
As it is for all would-be gods.
His posts on Pravda Social will be reviewed
by an apparatchik with absolute loyalty
to Putin,
or whoever the dictator in Russia is now.
His writings shall conform to pro-Russian themes,
never stray from state-approved style.
He shall learn to write poetry.
PO-e-try?
Oh, yes. Poetry.
His cozy little dacha in Russia
shall serve as his outpost
where he shall grow sunflowers and cabbage,
and eat carrots and beets and make borscht,
where he shall learn humility,
until he reaches the age of 100.