After the Rally

After the Rally

A clown with an odd hairdo and a list
of parasites (some tilling the same ground
where they were born) he vows to see dismissed,
walled out for good, or worse; a bark-like sound
some of us heard before, scornful and brash;
an audience with the rapt look of recruits.
No weapons, though; no patch of black mustache;
no lightning banners or stiff-armed salutes.
This replay may be nothing more than funny;
maybe he hasn’t bought the power he needs—
not yet—despite his dragon-hoard of money;
maybe this blessed soil resists the seeds
that grew and spread from both banks of the Rhine.
Maybe this isn’t nineteen-thirty-nine.