“Names are for the loyal,”
So they told him,
when they swapped name to number.
He had too many questions
for a dictator’s lackey to tolerate,
“Is six alive? How about five?
“Is there an eight? How ’bout a nine?
“Do they live and die in ordered time?
“Or is each end a random call?
“Toss a coin, and let it fall?
“Let it roll, till it shows a face,
“Heads a bullet, tails for grace
“I’ll take the end that’s certain and dire,
“before letting chance choose when I’m retired.”
“But seven is such a lucky number.”
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on May 25, 2018.