The gutter

I heard the gutter roar,

the torrent in the street

rushing to join

the ever swelling sea.

And the arenas thrilled

when the smirking fake

spilled and spewed his hate

was echoed in the halls of state.

So now I must give a measure

of grudging thanks

that the mask is dropped,

their leering lust made plain.

Before I closed my eyes

to sleep last night,

I let the pages of my Bible

open to where they would

And read the psalmist’s plea:

Lord, how long shall the wicked,

How long shall the wicked triumph?

How long shall they utter and speak hard things?

And all the workers of iniquity

boast themselves?

They break in pieces your people,

and afflict your heritage.

They slay the widow and the stranger

and murder the fatherless.

Yet they say the Lord shall not see,

neither shall the God of Jacob regard it.

Understand you brutish among the people,

and you fools, when will you be wise?

He that planted the ear, shall he not hear?

He that formed the eye, shall he not see?

The gutter still roars this morning,

this dark season has not ceased,

The fever in this diseased republic

has yet to break and the question hangs

like the fog clinging to the mountain.

How long shall the wicked triumph?

Will the throne of iniquity have fellowship

with You and frame mischief by a law?