and statues are falling,
sapped from their stands
by furied hands to rope,
and o, how they tug like fishers
with families to feed, each pull
nearer full-blooded extraction,
each pull a deep uproot
down a dig to sweet release, the same rush
drillers might hit each time cracked
earth spurts lustrous blacks
on Ru’s ranch, the queen himself slippered,
robed, and seated at home nearby, a live,
marble homage to a once-hero’s death,
smiling, perhaps unclear that he, too, will fall,
and that all who hoist coin over lives
shall be someday recalled as they lived
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