The morning sun intrudes
past the boundary of the curtain –
even if I were to avoid it,
it will still rise again, unlike you.
I, too, become gradually unlike you:
I don’t watch the television,
I don’t go out on Friday nights. I don’t
write poetry for fun anymore, amongst
other trivial matters.
It’s just that now, I know it wasn’t
you leaving that hurt. It was finding
that I knew everything, but only once.
Without you, I can no longer say that.
Yet, I do know this:
after these years, I still know nothing –
the feeling of no-one in the house,
no warmth in my bed.
The nothing that resounds in the house
when I speak, that fills the space where
your shoes used to be,
that fills my chest when I breathe.
Today, you are simply asked to write a poem that states the things you know to be true.
Reference Donald Trump without calling him a name.