I know I spoke very directly to him,
Very much like a lioness
Might snap a zebra’s skull in her jaws.
I thought to myself, “I’m not waiting.”
I’m not waiting for the green
Shoot of leadership to spring
From the thin and silty soil of his
Shoulders; I’m not waiting for
The sweat of humility, the blood
Of justice, the tears of remorse to
Streak his rubber face like pencil
Shavings; I’m not waiting for
The silver curse to stain his large,
Dark crown with even lesser glory;
Not waiting for that lie, “I still care
About you,” to flow down like blood
From the corners of his grin, false
Piety stained in the plaque of his
Crooked teeth. No, I’m not waiting.
I’m running, but not before I paint his
Face, white with no feeling, with the
Heavy lead of grace; Not before I snap
His skull with the razor-quick jaws of
Forgiveness, very much like a lioness.