The woman of Wellesley stood, excused herself,
Went into her private chambers, the inner sanctum,
White, bereft of any furniture save a single kneeler,
Lit from high above by a brilliant shining orb,
A place for her to commune with the immortal Olympians.
Closing the door, she knelt, took out her ivory cell phone,
Dismissed a few cat videos, read an email or two, then
Dialed a secret number, addressed words to Hera,
“Hear me, Queen of the Gods! O Goddess who reigns on high
If ever I pleased you, with my love and keen devotion,
Show me your love, protect me from this pretender,
Pay back my enemies now, with great humiliation!”
Her prayer flew through the chilly skies to the sacred peak
Where the Thunderer’s wife, on the thirteenth green, heard it.
To her husband white-armed Queen Hera flew at once,
Partly for Hillary, mostly because she trailed by several strokes;
For what use is there being a goddess if you cannot be a poor sport?
She found the Sovereign of the Gods watching television,
Giants versus Vikings, sipping a divine brew full of foam
When Hera whispered in his ear, and his great visage paled.
He nodded, waited until the punt, fourth and twenty, then stepped outside.
On board the Trump’s golden aircraft, streaking through the sky
Cohen, the future rat, sought an audience with his lord.
From the aft of the plane, he tiptoed forward
“Mister Trump!” he squeaked, his nose crinkled.
Others heard, mouse-like Jared and long-tressed Ivanka among them
But the Trump paid him no heed; the son of Fred’s rule was
You call lawyers, they don’t call you.
Zeus the cloud-gatherer arose, commanded Aeolus
Master of the four winds, Zephyrus of the west,
Notus of the south, Boreas from the cold north, and
Eurus in the east, to loose their breaths, all at once.
Nor did they fail their lord; somewhere over Cincinnati
A black-clouded storm arose.
The golden plane lurched
Spilling some Kristal, and Mona, flight attendant to the Trump
Asked them to take their seats, fasten their belts
Crafted from the finest Corinthian leather,
One hundred steps to complete, a full day for each
Nothing like them anywhere else, really the best.
Neither her words of caution nor the storm stayed the brave advocate.
O Lawyer, my Lawyer! With motions and suits thou dost protect us!
Briefs and injunctions, litigation! Thy power is great, thy magic strong,
And should be for thirty-three percent.
Cohen, loyal Cohen, back then he worshipped the Trump,
For the Trump had made a man of the Long Islander,
Snatching him up from chasing ambulances,
Handing out business cards at all hours in emergency rooms.
How many sharp-edged cease and desists had he fired off
In service of the Trump? Bravely he’d stood up,
Faced down the schools of the Trump, who’d been asked
To release transcripts of the totally unfair grades
Those biased and prejudiced educators had given the child Trump.
No, Cohen, the True Believer, he would not rest
Not when he was in the service of the Trump.
Even as the plane bounced to and fro the son of Maurice
Struggled forward, briefcase held tightly to his chest,
“Mister Trump!” plaintively he called his master,
Who frowned and reluctantly bade him sit next to him.
As the swift plane continued through turbulent winds,
The soon to be rat sat, bathing in the presence of the Trump,
Opened his briefcase, and spoke softly,
So that only the son of Fred could hear.
“We have a problem,” he started, and no sooner spoken
Then did the Trump reply with these words, “Fix it then.”
But this nugget of wisdom did not satisfy the future rat.
“Sir,” Cohen persisted, “she’s asking for more money.”
The Trump furrowed his brows. “Who? Which?” he asked,
Glancing up at icy-eyed Melania, hoping she hadn’t heard.
She stared straight back at him, through him, chilling his soul.
He groaned, Cohen’s timing was always terrible,
“Can’t this wait,” he mumbled though scowling fat lips
“No sir!” replied Cohen, a little too loudly.
Then, shuffling some papers, he uttered her name:
As a bolt of Zeus’ divine lightning illuminates the dark night
So now memories raced through the mind of the Trump,
Of a chance meeting, years ago competing at a golf course
By shimmering Lake Tahoe, at Harrah’s, with five hundred rooms.
Cat-eyed Melania, his wife of eighteen blissful months, stayed home
Taking care of the new baby; and the Trump looked forward
To a quiet weekend, cavorting with lovely Karen the Playmate
And a little golf. Such he deserved, as he’d just celebrated his sixtieth
So many years since he’d emerged, the union of Fred and Dorothy;
And he wanted a present, or several, if possible, and it was always possible.
And so it became a weekend of glory! Even for the Trump!
For even as he finished with Karen, even as he was spent
His precious core regenerated as he drove the golf cart.
His shirt emblazoned with the Great Seal of Trump,
And his motto, were they words of the great Roman, Cicero?
Or the stoic Seneca perhaps? Or did they hearken back to Plato,
Who likened our lives to a dark shadow-filled cave?
No: his own immortal phrase embroidered!
Out on the grassy course his roving eyes alit on well-endowed Stormy
The famous actress, headliner of so many celluloid classics
Like Dripping Wet Sex and of course Breast Friends.
That day she peered at him over Chanel sunglasses
Opened her mouth, her tongue floating slowly over glossy lips;
And the Trump’s fast-beating heart was filled with hot desire.
With Melania home, he invited the flowing-tressed blonde to dinner.
The starlet did not decline, she graced the Trump with a smile,
Thinking a billionaire’s attention was nothing to ignore.
Of course, she knew of the Trump, knew of his wives, Ivana, Marla
And their huge settlements and spacious Manhattan condos!
Not knowing who else would come, she donned a modest outfit
But some buttonholes were left unfilled. Every hair curled,
Mascara and eyeliner applied, her silken lips reflecting the sunset.
Finally, she declared herself ready; and as a professional, she knew it to be so.
A note under the door! Her name embossed on the envelope!
“Running late,” could it be the Trump’s own writing?
“Meet me in my penthouse, number sixteen o three.”
She narrowed her eyes, pursed her collagen-enhanced lips
Stormy, she knew what was going on! She paused …
But deterred was she not, confidently to the elevator she strode,
Met at the door by steadfast Keith, captain of the guard
Did he lick his lips? Take in his breath sharply?
He slid the card key through and let her in, without a knock.
Feigning shock, the nymph Stormy gasped, put her soft hand to her face,
Discovering the Trump had not dressed for dinner, but in pajamas instead.
A white-cloth’d table was perfectly set by the TV, gold-trimmed glasses
Slim candles flickered, setting the mood for his lovely guest.
Dinner was served, oysters with fresh carrots, delicacies aplenty.
Chomping on his meal the Trump posed Stormy a question,
“I’d love to have you on The Apprentice,” he suggested.
“Highest ratings, great exposure, nothing like it anywhere!”
Fluttering her eyelashes, she said only, “Hmmm,
I’d rather you have me in Monte Carlo, Capri, Macao…”
Her dark eyes met his as she quietly uncrossed her shimmering legs
And at that his lusty fantasies were stirred, oh, she enticed him!
Bewitched was the Trump, held fast in her tightening spell.
After dinner they took to the couch, and when she wasn’t looking
He washed a blue pill down with a Pepsi, not Diet this time, treating himself,
And of course, she saw it, saw all, knew what was coming, and who.
They chatted while they waited, watched the Discovery Channel.
After a time, his ardor rose, on cue, and the zipper sank.
Did she, he inquired, wish to view the true Donald,
His pride, his joy, governor of his life, much desired by the fairer sex?
Yes, her husky voice replied at once, show me the great Donald! Now!
And there it was! She gasped: noble it was, like a wild forest mushroom
A hefty-trunked Shiitake, perhaps, with a delicate round cap?
Or a wide-spreading Portobello, favored by grillers?
No, more like a pulsing, rose-like chanterelle, beloved of fungi!
Her eyes agape, how could she, graced among women, resist?
Why would she, him with jets and homes and billions?
Protection? Certainly not! Against what? With the Orange One! And besides,
Her latex allergy. Driven by hot passion, sweat-covered bodies entwined,
Stormy’s, thin and lithe,
his, not so much.
The Trump’s heart raced; his pores oozed, he nigh exploded!
As horny Stormy joyfully, proudly received the essence of Trump.
Still bewitched, still ensnared by her wiles, he grabbed the remote
Finding – best of all – Shark Week on the flat screen.
A wondrous, glorious weekend! Sex & Golf! Golf & Sex! Sex & Golf!
Must call Stormy back! Must do it all again!
“Mister Trump?” inquired Cohen, “are you all right?”
But the Trump was still lost in that enchanted weekend,
Lustrous Stormy, and Karen the Playmate, and others,
The mighty Donald, his oaken core, had not let him down!
“Mister Trump?” again that annoying voice disturbed his reverie,
And again, the breath of Zephyrus rocked the swift plane.
“If this comes out now … so close to the election …”
And the Trump, wise among men, got the message.
Sweet Stormy was blackmailing him, the Trump and
For a moment he felt a tinge of sadness; O Stormy, what could have been!
Yet he harbored no resentment, understood, even; he’d have done the same
True loyalty, he knew, is illusory; at best, fleeting.
And money is money.
Perhaps someday even Cohen would turn, or Melania. “How much?”
The orange-haired son of Fred wanted to know. “Half a mill,”
Was the response, drawing no more than a shrug
From the Trump’s dandruff-strewn shoulders. “No way!”
Then he thought a moment, and then another.
Finally, he said these words, these very words:
“You insult me, Michael; you insult me!” Cohen, flustered, answered
“Sir! Why would you say such, Mister Trump, my liege lord?”
Holding his hand to his chest, he continued, “To you I am true!
Right here, on my thin-walled heart, would I take a bullet for you!”
“Then why, Michael, do you bring me this demand? Knowing
I never take the first offer? Knock it down! Use your powers:
All that I taught you, all that I gave you, my fixer
Never give in, hold to your guns, never concede!
Threaten, cajole, blackmail, do what you need!”
“Yes, Mister Trump,” the loyal lawyer responded in kind;
“Then pay it, but from one of your accounts.”
“Mister Trump!” exclaimed the shocked Cohen. “Why should I –?”
“Do it,” he repeated his command, adding, “Set up a shell,
Hide everything, you know how to do it! Everything you have
Is from me! Right? Isn’t that right? I’ll pay you back!”
“Okay, Mister Trump!” little Michael replied giddily, pleased
To have the confidence of the Trump. He returned to his seat
Followed by the eyes of ever-watchful Melania.
The laptop opened, and timid Cohen transformed,
Once the Trump’s lap dog, now a pit bull on Outlook,
Composing vicious, frightful emails, filing angry lawsuits, not just one
Demands for decades of documents, oh, the expense of discovery!
Designed to intimidate, paint poor Stormy into a corner
Defamation of character, libel, slander, the Trump’s mental anguish
The raging advocate, fierce as fire, hurled his motions
One fusillade after another, and they had their effect:
Reeling under his litigious barrage, she cowered, cried, begged it to stop
With every harsh writ, the more dark despair consumed her;
Then: an ironclad non-disclosure agreement sent; and a new number
One hundred thirty thousand dollars.
To which she agreed.