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Postmodern Village
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The Applicant At Trump Towers
by Melissa Thompson

As always, apologies to Sylvia Plath

First, are you our sort of people?
Do you wear veneers,
Botox, green powder, and orange skin?
Navy blue suit, red power tie,
A size or two too big -- tailors will cheat you --
A scowl like a dog with his bone stolen? Yes?

Then maybe you can hang with us.
But not if you cry.
Not if you laugh, smile, hug, joke,
Empathize, sympathize, exercise.
Is there something in your head? If so, just leave.
We’ll tell you what you think.

We’ll trot you out of your cage for show,
Braid your hair like a Lipizzaner,
And let you wave to the empty seats.
Oh, and don’t whine to us about diversity.
We’ve got a brunette, a blonde and a redhead.

One’s in her thirties, way past her prime, and she
Even wears glasses. She wouldn’t be put
On TV of course, but she is quite competent.
Just don’t betray us. Never contradict us
In public, in private, in your dreams at night.
Don’t bring your alternative facts around here.

We just promised to drain the swamp. No one said
We couldn’t then pave it and put up condos.