The Dictator
The Dictator
One night at dinner the dictator’s wife
Noticed how pale his hand was
In comparison with hers,
And within a week a dozen
Of the most beautiful young men
Stood at the wrought-iron gate of the palace.
It was very hot. Lucky were the ones
Who happened to stand in the shadow
Of a statue of the dictator on horseback.
The guards were curt with the one whose turn it was.
He was ordered to strip down to his undershirt
And sit in a chair that wobbled on the cobblestones
While the dictator’s private doctor took his blood.
When one of the young men fainted,
A few who had already donated
Carried him quickly across the empty square,
The guards’ laughter echoing off the villas.
That night, the dictator cried out in his sleep
And was dead before his wife could light the lantern,
Killed by the same poison
The beautiful young man
Who’d fainted had swallowed
Standing in the dictator’s shadow.