They met on the internet. They knew right away
they were made for each other, plain as prey.

They were the same comix. They liked the same movies,
especially the ones with the muscles and uzis.

Vladimir murmured as if in a trance
the President's got such delicate hands…

crooning in a postgeocoital calm
see how they nestle right into my palm…

Now it's true the Commander's got awesome paws
They're elegant, delicate, fit for a boss

who likes them kissed, and sometimes greased,
but of small things, they're not the least:

the inside's where he's truly little
like the space inside the excluded middle

of one of his whoppers, sluiced from the stump
to the internet (see hashtag Trump).

It's why Vlad loves him so, soul-small,
dissembled, assembled, his Russian doll.

P.S.

Commander in tweet is addicted to anger.
He's addicted us all: his triumph, our rancor.

When Michelle said go high—read this poem—did I?
Can satire suck sanguine hope from a canker?