He called his dad a troglodyte, his sisters, basket cases,
although he was not brash enough to do so to their faces.
He felt himself the underdog—blamed for everything.
He felt his wings were clipped, although he dreamed of taking wing.
Someday he would spring the trap and he would show them all.
But until that day, he’d simply hang out at the mall,
checking out the chicks and panhandling when he could.
He knew he could do great things and some day he would,
but no one gave him chances. The Mexicans and Arabs
with their Virgin Marias and their half-moons and their scarabs
were taking all his jobs away. He didn’t even try.
Why should a decent white guy bother to apply?
How dare his dad declare that he has nothing on the ball?
He is kept plenty busy holding up this wall.
When the other wall is built, his life will come together.
He’ll get some fancy job and break the family tether.
Get a real cool crash pad and party with his friends.
He’ll make some just as soon as this foreign invasion ends.
Time enough for school once Trump takes out the trash.
Then he’ll ace his classes and rake in the cash.
He’ll show every idiot who claims he is a bum
that he is the genius. He’ll show them who is dumb!
Those guys who hang out at the mall in every sort of weather?
If we could read their thoughts, they just might be birds of a feather.