Your feet speak as they meet the
scaffold stair: You brought this
on yourself.
It’s clear from the humorless way
the garroter yanks your chain that
he hates his work.
You soften to the pillory’s kiss:
its wooden hug whispers of
headless love.
The crowd squawks in unison.
Your eyes empty themselves.
The blade whistles home.
— SPENCER KEENE
