Let’s see…there were three men, maybe more,
who sat at the feet of the hanging man
and threw dice to win his bloodied clothing.

Occasionally one would get up
to check on the condemned’s
progress. Until the man passed and then

they divided the spoils of his rags
(there wasn’t much to split among them)
and worked together to pull down the cross,

yank out the nails, give his form to his
family: long-suffering, short on patience.
One disciple spit discreetly; no one saw.

If they’d seen they would have likely
flogged him with a cruel smile and a sneer.
As it was, they turned to their next duty

and stopped thinking about the body
of a man they never met, not at all.
There were so many left to kill and taunt,

so many mothers to give a ruined body to.
So many men waiting for their turn, perhaps,
on a cross. So many throngs, still, to entertain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T