If the Second Coming was at hand,

would he,

my partner of the muddled brain,

recognize Jesus?

As the chaos spread appalling

across the screen,

he wondered if Raphael Warnock

was the new president,

and why

angry white men

smashed the Capitol’s windows.

When Trump told his supporters

to go home,

he laughed.

Perhaps—

as has been said—

dementia is a new day,

not like the now infamous

January 6.

Police in riot gear,

shifting foot to foot

behind plexiglass shields—

he’ll forget the vision

in a moment.

“Who is the new president?”

he asked six times,

anxious about his visit to the neurologist,

who might test him.

That the leader of the country

is a mad man

only troubles him

for as long as the image

stays on the screen.

What is it like,

inside that mind?

Soft and clean,

like a new pillow?

A fearless place to rest?

Or could it be a dark, roiling ocean

of anxiety and confusion,

a reflection

of the events

on the bigger screen?