Donald Trump contracted the Coronavirus. At first they said from Hope Hicks, whom they reported tested positive first. Then they added Melania into the picture, plus Kellyanne Conway. And a bunch more Republicans who often didn't wear masks at various events. They mentioned that Hope had flown on the President's plane with the usual entourage. And now everyone fears for their life. Everyone that was in contact with Donald J. Trump over the last several days when he was most infectious. Exhaling plenty of virus particles, while his audiences sat maskless for the most part, right next to each other. Primed to receive their gift from the meister superspreader as he bespoke his random words of truth and lie. To please the crowd. As is his m.o. Now he is in the hospital, apparently bound to survive. Perhaps with no sequelae. Still infectious for a few more days.

This poem is about The Beast. That could be here, there, and everywhere. Threatening a fearful society. Able to travel freely wherever it roams. Or is it some representative of our paranoia? Something to blame anything on, that we worry about? Rather than the President himself. There aliens engineering this treason? On the Earth, above it in our airplane lanes? . . .