A Trumpian Night Before Christmas

'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 a robe from Ivanka's boutique had just hit

the Xanax for one silent week. The moon on the blow

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