attached at either end to hoses and pumps
in accordance with the terms of his punishment
like a great wilted thing slowly forcing itself
into life motivated by some primal need for fodder
Mister Trump inflates, his puckers evening and
ironing out, his cellulite smoothing, his face
taking on a forced fat smile; he rises, unsteadily
shaking, quivering and pink, naked, foolish,
regretful at last; he ascends over the rooftops
like the vast rear end of a fattened autumnal hog
propelled by uncertain farts; higher he climbs,
observed by all viewers everywhere, as children with bows
and arrows with suckers and pea-shooters
attempt to knock him down like a blimp filled
with gas that may just ignite and crash
upon the grass amongst the cats and sandwiches
to scare the spectators, each of whom
has paid a heck-of-a-lot of money to be here
each of whom is a little scared of what might
happen next; but all that happens is his grin
gets bigger; his bottom balloons out into the clouds
and he drifts away to take his place upon high
in the starry pantheon of people we no longer
give even half a shit about, but would still like
to see die in our heart of hearts
.
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