Comfort Food

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This poem is pre-approved
	by those in charge of truth.
It won’t be disturbing. It won’t offend. 
	It lives to serve you—
to placate, flatter, and woo

your politics. It’s an ode 
	to your wounds,
be they surface or bone-deep,
	ancient or recent.
This poem is pre-approved
	by those in charge of truth

and the definition of truth. 
	Is truth a root?
A tree? A starling in that tree?
	Does this birdsong bend
and serve? Yes! It trills and thrills,
	 it flatters and woos

you, you, you, you, you.
	Do you feel soothed?
This poem gathers lumber
	and nails to build a fence
between what is approved
	and what is not approved.

Your side is safe. The other side
 	is a strange zoo.
Look at those humans, 
	so wrong in their wildness.
Don’t feed them. Don’t reward
	their howls. Don’t let them woo

and fool you into changing your mind.
	Those damn brutes
are dangerous. Let this poem be
	your only friend.
It will provide you those truths 
	that you’ve pre-approved.
This poem is a mirror. That’s your face.
	Make yourself swoon.