Four More Years

Four more years!  Four more years!
Guys in suits, punching
the air like happy drunks.
Tiny flags fiercely shaken
like Chinese fortune sticks
spitefully denying us

Four more years!  Four more years!
things will be like they were
when the working poor had names
for their homes.
Names like Toyota Tercel.

Four more years!  Four more years!
Am I alone here
or is all chanting
kind of creepy?

Four more years!  Four more years!
Patriotic confetti falls.
Our leaders mill about
the stage waving to no one in particular.
The celebration continues.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.