On the Red Carpet

He makes a red-carpet entrance

On the tarmac of a runway

In a country far away

From the chaos he has orchestrated

In the land of the free.

The sycophants and psychopaths wait

Coifed and groomed

A token blonde or two

For 'his majesty's' pleasure.

They look strained.

As they stand on this land

That is not theirs

That never was or will be

Waiting for the self-appointed

Saviour of the Middle East.

The Golden Age of Israel

The past swept under the red carpet

They now stand on

Sshh, it never happened

All will be right with the world.

He finally appears on the steps

Of the private jet, alone

Looking uncomfortable as he surveys

The distance down and then across the

Blood red trail on the tarmac.

On an invisible signal, the welcome party

Surges forward to greet him

Narrowing the distance between them

Narrowing the distance between Israel and America

Casting no shadows, whispering no prayers.

His gait is heavy, his appearance dishevelled

His age is now impossible to hide

His feet tread wearily on the carpet

Irritation showing on his face as greetings

Constantly halt his forward momentum.

A blonde approaches, hair like a waterfall

She goes in for a kiss on the cheek

I think of the Epstein files, but she persists

Not one, not two, but three times

He looks awkward, he looks seedy.

I stopped watching after that

I didn't want to hear him mangling

One-syllable words and claiming

The Nobel Peace Prize will be his

They made a mistake, didn't they?

I struggle to watch the party in hostage square

Whilst imagining the torment of the

People of Palestine, traversing the wasteland

As they return to the rubble that

Once was their homeland.

I am glad that some of the hostages survived

And of course, I am sad for those who died

But the war isn't over yet

And I fear the egos involved

Will not fairly distribute the spoils.