A knight
(At least, he thinks he is a knight)
Emerges from a stairwell
Into a throng of red-and-blue noise
Clears his throat, against the thrum of sirens and walkie-talkies
Ponders for a moment
And speaks thus:
“Je pense que moi c’est tres beaucoup,
Alors, n’est pas toujours venue,
Et dans la cette que vous patin,
Mes arondites te trop moulin.”
So satisfied, he turns
Draws his blade
(To kneel or charge or salute the crowd)
And the mob opens fire
Riddling him with bullets and stones and photographs
Until his body collapses backwards into its tomb
Where an epitaph reads
“For your own safety, please stay behind the line.”