Mass Execution

They cling to the gibbet, adjusting

The noose in elevators and street cars

And telephone booths; the rattle of snare

Drums snores loudly in living rooms

After supper; and airplanes flee through time

Approaching the minute like clock hands

Defecating seconds. The trapdoor dropping

Is the squeak of subway turnstiles. Nickle

Proclamations headlining new obituaries

Are dime a dozen at newsstands-posted

Reward: domestic champagne, Van Johnson,

Or an apartment third floor back.