A Final Round
I was led like Socrates to the slaughter.
And they cut my head off quick, without hacking.
They batted it idly against the courtyard wall awhile.
I think my parents set me up.
After the crowd left, they placed my head back onto my neck,
then walked off, burbling with smalltalk.
I stood up, gingerly. I wasn’t dead yet,
but couldn’t reason why. A little dizzy, a little bleary,
I went for a drink, to wait for death to catch on.
My executioners came in, talking cautiously.
And I stayed at the bar, rattled but amused.
Healing was out of the question.
Beyond eavesdropping at last,
I ordered another drink and reveled
in my peculiar, almost-dead blues.