by Bud Sturguess

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I passed Elevator A
A squad of uniformed inspectors
wearing aviator shades in all colors and tints
were struggling, rather comically,
to fit a guillotine (labelled “Exhibit B” – evidence)
The implement of hell was due
for a photo shoot with Court TV at 3 o’clock
I gathered from their angry chatter
about this uncooperative chopping block.

I watched, transfixed by that bloody instrument
until startled by a tap on the shoulder
It was a fellow I recognized as Mr. Crooks
He looked much thinner, much more ghostly and older
He’d been stuck in Last Year’s Purgatory
and I’d almost forgotten him entirely
with so many sacrifices offered to Old Glory

I saw Mr. Oswald (or someone who stole his face)
Mr. Guiteau, a slew of Proud Boys,
defenders of such and such a race,
and the fellow who shot Spencer Percival
(I was embarrassed to forget his name)
There was even a scruffy fellow I knew as Joe
(of “Hey Joe” fame)
and true to lore, in his hand he held a gun
I even saw the guards who shot Gandhi
(albeit not the famous one)

Mr. Oswald, or his impostor,
made room for Mr. Crooks and me
as the elevator began to ding and whiz
signaling the departure of this motley roster
“There’s room for one more,” he muttered
in that antisocial way of his
clutching close his mail order carbine
I considered stepping inside – I truly did –
I shuddered:
How long and lovingly did I stare to my left at that unwieldy guillotine?

As Mr. Crooks disappeared inside,
the president’s blood obscuring his existence,
despite how easy it would be, wrath accomplished
not merely incurred,
despite these righteous avengers’ insistence,
I opted to remain anonymous and portly
“No, thank you, gentlemen,” I demurred
“There’ll be another coming shortly.”

Bud Sturguess was born in the small cotton-and-oil town of Seminole, Texas. He now lives in his “adopted hometown,” Amarillo. Sturguess has self-published several books, his latest being the novel “Sick Things.” He is a collector of neckties. Bud’s most recent previous story for us was  “Molasses.”