In a cell, or wandering the yard, the two wait.
Soon, they will be taken to a field.
Their choice. Blind or clear eyed:
one last look at the moon?
Stand, sit, or kneel? A thoughtful touch.
Tense as they hear the barked command
the three bullets will tear through the night sky
like eager dogs let off the leash.
Into their heart
or near it.
If lucky, they die instantly
if not, they will bleed
until revolver bang just above the ear
cup of tea home to wife.
High above, the seagulls will whirl,
squawkingly, suddenly, disturbed.
A child stirs down the road in a hut.
Then all is silent, ambulances
remove the bodies. No need for sirens.
No need for more fuss than is
absolutely necessary.
Well, This Is What I Think 