The good news is this: To the extent that Trump was a force, that force is now spent. He’ll certainly lose the popular vote by a large margin and he has nowhere to go but down. The man is 70, in the twilight of his years by any measure. The night is coming on, and darkness will overtake him whether he accepts it or not. That’s enough for me.
A lot of people, at this time of life, reflect on mistakes made, and perhaps how to atone for them. Not Trump. For the next few years he’ll be calling in to right-wing talk shows claiming vindication whenever anything terrible happens. But he was never charismatic or convincing and advancing age will make him less so. Look at Rudy Giuliani.
Yes, most of Trump’s supporters will keep buying firearms and fantasizing about an American apocalypse. But they were going to do that anyway. Trump is not their leader and never was. He used them and they used him and now it’s time to move on. They don’t like losers anymore than he does; they see quite enough of that in the mirror. God help us if they ever find a real leader.
I know Trump would never read a poem, but I thought of one today during my daily walk. It seems to fit his present circumstances. It’s from “Spoon River Anthology,” by Edgar Lee Masters:
And I say to you that Life’s a gambler
Head and shoulders above us all.
No mayor alive can close the house.
And if you lose, you can squeal as you will;
You’ll not get back your money.
He makes the percentage hard to conquer;
He stacks the cards to catch your weakness
And not to meet your strength.
And he gives you seventy years to play:
For if you cannot win in seventy
You cannot win at all.
So, if you lose, get out of the room —
Get out of the room when your time is up.
It’s mean to sit and fumble the cards,
And curse your losses, leaden-eyed,
Whining to try and try.”