Cinderella in the Second Trump Administration

Cinderella polished the ache in her—
washing walls, scrubbing floors,
stirring, stirring, stirring the pot, 
cleaning windows over, over
and over again— was her grief.

The lady of the house (calling 
her stepmother she could not do-
not that orange haired demon)
bellowed her demands: 

“When one goes to my windows
and looks out, they must be in real 
doubt whether it is glass or air.
Just remember this stupid child.”

Today, Cinderella was in doubt as to 
whether this thing was even a woman.
Perhaps, a pasty faced drag queen
with a bad dye job and a comb over?

Cinderella pulls herself together, 
smooths her blue dress out, growing 
annoyed and angry with the red mouth
always speaking and not making sense.

She sees her grand ball gown
in shreds and ashes by the fireplace
and with a shout unheard of before,
smashes all the panes to shivers.

Outside, Cinderella smells fire,
watches righteous citizens, once soundly
asleep but now fully, rudely awake, torching 
the red castle, killing the king’s sycophants.

“ Well,” she says, to the red face faux  queen,
the queen who wants to be a faux king, 
watching  everything burning down.
“Is the house clean enough for you, now!”