Rage: A sonnet

A protester is escorted from the building at a rally in Austin for Republican nominee for president Donald Trump on August 23, 2016. Photo by Todd Wiseman

Is there anyone left in this country
who isn’t a shrieker or a victim
or a bombastic fool, who isn’t angry
about everything or who isn’t ranting
through long days and nights, in person sometimes
but more often on social media,
alternating between screaming and whining
in truly infantile hysteria?
If so, it’s not me, for I’ve been misused
more or less extensively since day one
so that all my frustrations have fused
into a sort of cudgel which it’s almost fun
to beat against this world, against this screwed-up age.
To what end? Who knows? The truth is, I like my rage.