A safehouse of sorts, although why I need one remains unclear. Nor why I need help I don’t get to play some video game. Then more instructions: “You’ve got to do this…” and “Don’t do that…”
It’s like I’m being prepped for some mission.
Only the parameters aren’t clear. I have the sensation that some young-looking, blond, middle-aged man is my handler (he keeps talking like one), but I can’t clearly identify who he is.
What’s Donald Trump doing here?
And why do I keep hearing King George III from Hamilton singing his numbers? Always the same two parts of the same two lines:
“I will send a full battalion…”
or
“I will kill all your friends and family…to remind you of my love.”
Suddenly it’s go time. Only the operation’s botched. We’re betrayed before we begin. Trump, with that smug look on his fae, exposed us.
Then everything fades in the morning light.
birdsongs
emeshed in the safety
of my sheets
for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Safety
Frank J. Tassone 
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