He argued
Fore cynicism
Farced to choose between
What’s left
What is right
And he one handily
With won hand tied behind his back
Soundly
Like the slow clap
With the only hope
That he is not contagious
And that joy can be found in abandon
In the grip of whatever he comes up with
This poem continues in my perpetual theme of cynicism versus hope, with a tip of the hat to the post-election ennui experienced by much of the American electorate and non-electorate. Like I have been known to say: cynicism is its own reward. 
This poem awards cynicism with one of my favorite insulting critiques: cynicism is like masturbation, except without the short-term pleasures or long-term benefits. While experiencing the grip of cynicism qualifies as normal, cynicism strikes me as a profoundly maladaptive response to building a long-term, hope-filled relationship with reality. If you argue for cynicism, on whose side are you on? Of course, misery loves company. Incorporate that company in your worldview and you win amputated possibilities and learned helplessness. Cynicism is locked in lamentable necessity and wretched necessities. 
Hope lives in possibility and possibilities ordered by our deepest dreams. Hope accepts the hard work of recognizing that our stymied yearnings are more of a reflection of the depth of our longings than mirror confirmation of our foes’ oafishness. Cynicism is fueled by the easy focus on others’ shortcomings. Hope is fed by the steadfast convergence of dreams and dreamers. It is easy to fall for seasons of cynicism and its many accomplices; I only ask that we keep the spring of hope in the lineup and work to swell the list of usual suspects…
