like him to suffer,
ride a colliding train
without a buffer.
I'd like him to roast

as a pig
over a firepit,
revolving til charred,
pierced with a spit. I'd like

his bed as a wooden rack. And
his limbs pulled tight with
a rope till they detach. Whip
his back like whites of

an egg till he screams
and he begs. Pull his eyes
out of the sockets. Dump scorpions
in both his shirt pockets. And even so

after all of this
it doesn’t come close
to all that he did.