Piece by the Wayside

One hand, a watch, a wedding ring,

a peace of flesh flown off for tests -

we’ve rid the world of minor pests,

all crawling things, ants on the wing.

Let his funeral paeans sing

of perfect virtue, life denied

to God’s own son. It’s justified.

He’d still support their clamorous call

to pin the killers to the wall:
our watch's arms are sanctified.