Paragon

by Frederick Pollack

That story … He didn’t talk.
Removed at five from a horrendous,
newsworthy squat, mother and latest
abuser. Miraculous foster family
kind, liberal,
150K a year but he still didn’t talk.
Tests. Began talking
at eight, very quietly,
politely: specific intentions,
apologies when needed.
Sped through remedial grades. Not
autistic, but math skills. Non-contact sports.
Scholarships, Wharton;
two oil firms; his name unmentioned, clean,
unlike that delta and two fishing grounds.
Lost contact with family. Eight figures, ten. Then
politics, the real one: donating.

Women carefully vetted, no conflict,
breakups, stayed allies. Had
they talked they would have said
he was funny. Returned often
to silence, sometimes for days but never
hostile: just work. Second marriage stuck;
boy went nuts, the two daughters
devoted, professional.
With early onset he remembered and
retold his jokes, but only one word
or phrase, not even the punchline. –
Few interviews, nothing about the past.
If asked he might have said
the trick is not to be asked.

Someone reminded Trump to sign a card.