Saturday, October 24, 2020

Mr Trump on Sunday

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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