A Dystopian Christmas Before Indictments

'Twas the night before Christmas and all 'cross the nation, not a visa

was stirring, not even probation. The stockings hung limp like our crops on the

vine since the pickers were jailed at the freedom fence line.

The children were nestled in ICE-sponsored pens, dreaming of Barbies who loved only

Kens. And mama in her robe from Ivanka's boutique had just hit

the Xanax for one silent week. The moon on the peak of the new-fallen snow

gave the luster of searchlights to chaos below. When out on the lawn there

arose such a clatter, I sprang from my My Pillow to tweet,