I saw your neck in splinters
and was sorry that I hit you.
It must be told, I’ve no control
of anything I do.
I swear, it’s him above me;
it’s him that makes me move.
And as the crowd clapped and jeered,
I knew, he moved you, too.
I dangle there in horror
at your unblinking eyes.
Painted glossy, twisted strings,
your face carved with surprise.
I don’t mean to stomp your face.
I really wish I could
pull the pins out from my knees–
scrapped, disabled wood.