See that mountain beckoning from the horizon?
See how its shadow swallows the valley below?
Look carefully as the trees twitch in the passing breeze.
See how the foothills form a ladder to the very top.
The profile in the setting sun may grow viciously,
but it moves no more than the sun inside its rings,
and come morning it’ll be only stone once more.
No, it is no mountain. Only a stepping block,
a seasoned card shark with an obvious tell
waiting to be called out, to be brought to poverty,
a soapbox whose only strength is the crowd before it.