Perhaps it's the chest pains.
Towards the end, against all mounting evidence,
he begins to believe
he might actually be a poet.
After all, this is how
it's supposed to be, isn't it?
Verse flowing free, dancing on tanks
in the square, liberated from the petty fascism
of Editing and Content,
that doppelkopfed dictator
with red pens for fingers and a nice line
in slurs. Now he swings
from a dual gallows.
Yet the dread rises.
This is how it's supposed to be,