The couple across the street props
an old pallet dressed in red, white,
and blue like a flag in their front yard
beside another hand-painted sign
that reads, “Put God back in America.”
At Christmas, they host the neighborhood
dinner, make everyone pray before we eat.
A retired Marine, he lays his gun collection
across the bed where visitors store their coats.
In their not-so-private hours, we know
they curse Obama and witch hunts, chant
lock her up, build a wall, stop the steal. They go
to church each Sunday and Wednesday,
sing gospels with other faithful. We decked
our house with blue lights last year
and skipped the neighborhood dinner.
If the event ran true to form, some neighbors
arrived in wheelchairs, others hobbled behind
aluminum walkers. All held hands, said
a group prayer and praised Donald Trump,
then discussed church events, how wonderful
the dry ham is, healthcare costs, medications.
My hands would have sweat through all
the pretense and piousness. They’ve fenced
facts into a cage in the back yard, feed it
only when they can’t afford not to, invite
others over once a year to see how well-
behaved it is, how nicely they decorate
this world in which they’ve barricaded themselves.
I feel myself building a wall of my own,
one day at a time, one brick of truth mortared
to another. I’m already the neighborhood heathen.
Soon, they will cordon me off from the righteous,
censure me, protect the flock from anything
that might disturb the comfort of groupthink.