You could begin with his hair, those gnarly blonde wisps balled together like grandmother's yarn and sewn onto his scalp haphazardly the way a kindergartner might glue feathers onto his paper-plate-turkey during Thanksgiving.
But that would be too easy. You might suggest instead that blowing into his ear would emit the same hollow sound as one blowing into an empty jug of wine, which you have begun to drink a lot more of since Election Day.
Still, too simple. Look at his fingers then, or the broken flesh-colored crayons disguised as fingers, on both of his tiny hands. Naturally, and because he brought it up, you wonder about his penis, if the rumors are true, if it’s the real reason Melania will live in New York—because there's really nothing to see in Washington.
Again, these are easy jabs. So you try to write intelligently about his racism, his bigotry, the way he mocked a disabled reporter. You call him Pussy-Grabber in Chief. You cite his bromance with Putin, his aquatic life with Russian prostitutes, his incestuous obsession with Ivanka, his affairs, his theft of small business owners, his crooked university, his rotten steaks, his multiple bankruptcies, his tax evasion, his petty fucking Tweets at 3am, his vocabulary skills that are so bigly, yet so so sad.
All of it—all night, all day—tumbles in your head like a dryer full of blood-stained sheets that you'll never wash clean. You will never understand how he got this far, how so many Americans in their Make America Great Again (Made in China) trucker caps and privileged, white smiles crawled into the voting booth and pulled the trigger for Trump. It almost makes you want to shoot somebody.
So instead of writing a poem about Trump, you cook dinner. You take your children to school, help them with their homework. You hold your wife a little closer. You have a beer with your friends.You buy tickets to Hamilton and watch sunsets as if for the first time. You breathe. You meditate. You build a wall around yourself, sit back, and let red America pay for their mistake.
But when you're ready, you will rise. You will stand up to a tyrant. You will march. You will fight. And you will finally break through the wall that Trumpty Dumpty has built—brick by deplorable brick. And as the nursery rhyme goes, he too will have a great fall, the cracked yolk of his ego spilling cowardice across the country.
And underneath the rubble of his reign, I promise, you will find a foundation of love upon which we can rebuild this nation.
So grab a shovel, and let's start digging.