We didn’t mind when they murdered within
their own borders, like Politovskaya’s
shooting in an elevator, ricin
bloating Shchekochikhin’s lungs with mire as
he breathed. But Litvinenko’s poisoning
with polonium—some careless agent
spreading its alpha radiation in
London’s parks and eateries—rips the tent.
My Terra satellite’s spy lens hovers
over Putin’s Kremlin pad. The clock ticks.
His Labrador, Koni, its teeth covered
with tiny capsules of sarin, will nick
Vlady’s hand like always. I’ll know he dived
fast once I see the ambulance arrive.
Roger Armbrust
June 25, 2007
