Great Man

On a long walk
on a short afternoon
the sun has put me
on a pedestal.
 
My trousers,
flapping  in the stiff breeze,
have become a column
I stand upon.
 
I think of Trump
and of his high opinion
of himself.
I picture a statue
of the ‘great man.’
 
It stands tall
against a clear blue sky.
But the plaque beneath him
reads ‘The Loser.’
His face
 
is stony, crestfallen,
and his bottom lip
is trembling. A tantrum
is brewing.