I like that mask you wear.
And how your hands can’t help but move
as you give out warnings.
You are watching too.
Like the iPhone.
Even the one in the basement.
You say, “expect us,” and I say,
I’m happy to have you.
I’ll make dinner.
Tell me what you want.
What is justice?
Whose privacy really matters?
I want the government to be small.
I like the way your hands can’t help but move
when you talk about the bills that passed,
whose freedom is getting smaller.
I don’t know what you stand for,
but sitting you are tall and austere.
Your mask makes you look like
You’d have to ask my father
if you wanted to take me out.
He’s a pastor upstate you know.
I guess you already knew that.
The movement gets bigger and bigger.
They aired you on abc.
Don’t ever tell me your name.
Freedom belongs to everyone.
The government works best
when it’s small.
I wonder how many toes you have stepped
on, whose yard you played baseball in
If you decide you want to talk,
I’d love to hear more about you.
Your hands and the echo,
the mask and the travel,
I’m happy to meet,
if you call first.