The Line Cutter

January, 2026

There was this kid I knew growing up—
Chip Moore, let's call him—a butt-
inski, line cutter, undefeated champion—
and he would kick my ass, too.

He always had to be first at everything.

Flushed with morning recess shenanigans, 
third-grade Chip cut me in line—not in the hall—
but at the row of leaking jaundiced urinals,
when I was mid-whiz, full blast.

I tried to stop, but I was untrained in Kegels 
or other incontinence exercises,
so I peed a remarkable amount more.

In suspended-animated horror,
I saw his faded red sweatpants,
with a widening line of piss
running down the back of his leg.

He and I never acknowledged it:
Chip was likely too embarrassed to take 
a miasmatic trip down memory lane; 
and me, guilty, as if I'd need to say sorry 
for letting my feet get stomped on.

What possessed Chip to be the very
territory he was trying to mark?

And now, three decades later, 
Trump and his America-first regime 
cut his name into a theater and battleships,
while threatening to take over 
Greenland, Gaza, and Venezuela,
with all the offensive subtlety
of a urinal mint masking 
their sketchy plans as detailed as 
the peeing cock and balls 
scratched on the bathroom stall
installed by his high-pressured 
golden shower of self-own.