Cyprus’ ringside seats enabled him
to watch the match. Who’d leave in a coffin?
The acrobat tumbled, his strength let him
toss the mawkish gawker out on his fin.
Through the hawker’s hand lapis lazuli
beads slid, clicking, blocking Cyprus’ view.
The stench of brimstone warned he’d better lie
low ‘fore the serum wore off. Sweat bedew
his forehead, his arm pits, deodorant’s
failure, its obsolescence in process.
Then his human skin molted and the chant
began quickening the change in the press.
A demon spilled forth ending the death match.
Everyone left without coffin or scratch.
~ ~ ~
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