They are coming for me, slowly.
I can feel it in my soul.
Sharp-tongued stick men
Scraping stilt legs against dry leaves
In the dull fog of the night.
Each has his list
Of all the crimes I've committed
Written in stick-figure alphabets
That wave their tiny arms
And carry torches.
"The evidence is overwhelming!"
The men and their lists proclaim
As they ring my ruined hovel.
They put me into their hard-edged cart
Of thick black lines and polygon wheels
And silently take me away.
Of course. Here's a stick-figure gallows.
Someone says "G"
And my head appears.