Twilight of the Odds
Trumpism pauses at the gates of the city, teeth bared, howling, swords flashing, warhorses prancing, and then slinks away.
Time after time.
Ah, the triumph of that first unimaginable glory, when Trump, loser of the popular vote, squeaked into the White House on a white horse that turned into a mouse, on which he fled, knees high on his too small mouse-y mount as the grab for a second term hacked and sputtered.
And the wave of invaders who rolled up to the Capitol on Jan. 6, screaming that they'd hang Mike Pence, kill Nancy Pelosi and overturn a republic.
They melted away, back to talk radio and bumper stickers and rain-soaked flags hanging from front porches and shooting paper at the gun range.
Always so close. Able to reach but not to grasp. Able to bark but too disorganized to bite. Shouted slogans and fumbling fingers.
And always predicting ultimate victory and always foiled by better than half the population.
Face it. The victory of Donald Trump was a one-off, a conspiracy against the point spread, the heavyweight championship lost on a foul, the bookmaker's nightmare grinning and asking to be paid off for a $2 bet on a 10,000-to-one shot.
I'm writing on the Wednesday after an election whose ultimate vote totals are not yet known, but I've seen the Pickett's Charge of Trumpism, the long toil up the hill against the guns, the falling and the dying, and the rebel yell rising in defiance.
And the failure to reach the top of the hill, the tattered falling back.