The man with the laugh
has his mouth set firm:
he will not budge, nor surrender.
The little lion man
calls the shots, bravely
standing among his own men,
eating at their table;
the face of a resistance
was once a comedian.
The kind of leader needed
when the air hangs still
silent before the explosion
as the world holds its breath —
this kind of man has an easy laugh,
bounces a child on his knee,
dances like nobody’s watching,
will not cow to bullies from abroad.
They are throwing their panties at him,
this man with the lion eyes.
They see a good man, a good father,
a kind smile, a warm touch —
freedom dances in him, this man,
and love and fierceness
beneath the pelt.
Do not get between a lioness and her cubs,
nor between the leader of a movement and his people.
He stands.
He is not tall.
Dwarfed on either side,
he stands,
he places his hand on his heart,
he looks to camera,
a dimple flashes and around the world
white women faint.
They have lionized him.
He is more dangerous now.
Charisma is half the battle
in this culture war.
On that front,
he has already won.
He will have a statue of marble or bronze.
Larger-than-life, in a suit or a helmet,
standing before an enemy tank,
or with a child at his knee —
He will have a statue.
His ferocity will be remembered.
The tenacity. Spunk. Drive.
Whatever they decide to call it.
They will wave their handkerchiefs at him,
they will leave flowers at his feet,
his cheek will gleam as the bronze dulls elsewhere,
from the kisses of a nation.
It will be good luck to rub his shoe, or elbow;
someday, a man will become myth,
but today, he is a lion.