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