Arms wave, phones held high
The first time in nearly a century!
I’m here, they tweet, jostle for selfies, shifting
Cameras pan the crowd, their red lights streaming,
The High-T host, pomade glistening, strides onstage,
flashes a thumbs up to the Foxes and hens
as they wheel out the convict—
the emcee leans into the mic,
whets his raw lips, recites a name—
Mohammed, Hussein, Omar, Ali—
almost any name will do,
accuracy isn’t the point.
Lions snarl in response, roar, as
Ten soldiers march out,
faces still as stone, firearms gleaming
1-2-3
Rifles raise.
Red lights blink.
4-5-6
Triggers taut.
Crowd chants.
7-8-9
Saliva.
Sweat.
The host gestures,
an ermine flourish—
10—
bullets fly.
The sinner receives those ten stones,
slumps sideways.
Phones aloft,
cameras still
on, air fills with smoke, suspended.
Suddenly, a baby cries out—
sick silence befalls the arena,
blood drips softly on the stage floor.
No one thought to plan the end.
The host, seeing eyes look away,
whirls on Florsheim heels to exit
—stage right—