Inauguration Day
I dream of the day when
the President – our President,
my President – stands in
front of the closet and
reaches not for the
well-worn, worn down, worn out
suit, the one with
buttons down the single
breast, the one made of wool
and cashmere and history and
moth balls – oh the moth balls –
but instead grabs the sequins,
the ball gown, the custom fit,
the heels, the jewelry.
The dress in which to dance,
the dance in which to shine,
the shine in which she can flip
the world on its axis,
for good. For good.
For good.
The Wandering Introvert 