Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 73

Poem by Robert Klein Engler

The Butcher of Baghdad paces his cell.

Soon he will be hanged. Perhaps he ponders

heaven and hell, nervous the way a man who

is afraid to fly folds and unfolds his ticket.

The high whine of an ambulance siren clears

the street outside my window. A rope snaps

tight. Al Jazeera scrolls in Arabic the news.

Tonight, on QVC they keep on selling shoes.

Fragments of a Body with its Skin Removed