I changed the meaning of this verb, a poem by Rethabile Masilo

�after e.e. cummings

I like four-five like he is nobody,
it isn't quite new a thing;
like as in why the way his necktie hangs;
O half-mast in a pair of pants
at the memorial of a soldier,
and to a world that is of girls,
world of boys, small-hand trick
to shock unspeakable face
addressing the when of our world
with a what in the lumps of his duds�

the unbelievable warts of it all,
of slow horror coming from the sea,
photo of despair showing who you know,

the oddity of tweeted speeches
even as his base comes over
in the flesh chanting: four, maybe
more. I like four-five. I like his hows.

And, possibly, I like the thought of y'all
collectively with friends against why
under him so very few.

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