Sentence

You always remember
the night of your execution
better than any other night. 

It is only the freak accidents,
the arcane spinning of the stars,
that keeps you hidden
in broad daylight,

An accident that you escape
the scornful looks
that perch upon grand bank accounts,
that mask the domestic misery
of diminished ardor,
that pity your pathetic plight
less than a turkey in the hunter's sight.

In another world you wander
beneath the summer starlight
and thank your god for darkness,
the warm canopy, keeping at bay
lingering leers, lacerations,
the civilized protestation
that is the response
to the fact of your creation -

Who are you, the voices say,
that you should live another day?