Iteration

Donald wept through the proceedings.

His tears soaked through the canvas

That cloaked his twisted face and they stained

As orange jumpsuit where with such rare distinction he once displayed

The evidence of his outstanding contributions

To the maintenance of a kingdom come.

But those days are gone.

He's nothing more than a number

On a docket thick with shareholder, engineers,

PR firms, politicians: war-profiteers.

"How the fuck did I end up here?

This just isn't fair.

Ain't no place for a millionaire."

And he searches for the words

To stop this table in mid-turn,

Like "we are but old men"

"We only did what we were told"

But the laughter from the gallery drowns out these vestiges

Of a profession's oldest defense.

"The court will direct

The record to reflect

Compliments from the bench;

You sir, are central casting's crowning achievement.

And for your outstanding performance

In a comedic role,

I'd like to dedicate the findings

Of the jury to the dead."

But how can

One man

Ever repay

A debt so appalling?

Can't gouge 10,000 eyes

From a single head so I

Think we should observe

A sentence that will serve

To satisfy both a sense of function and poetry:

So you will spend the rest

Of your days drenched in sweat,

With your face drawn in a rictus of terror

As you remove another buried land mine fuse.

Meanwhile, 100 yards back

Behind the sandbags, a legless foreman

Pulls the trigger on

A red megaphone.

Squelching feedback. Drunken laughter.

Broken English. His dead daughter's picture.

Time and tide, no one can anticipate

Inevitable waves of {change}

Inevitable waves of

(Inevitable waves of)

Inevitable waves of

(Inevitable waves of)

Inevitable waves of

Inevitable waves of