to my century

the tyrants are
all dead. they died
at eight
fifty-four, before the hour
could change for the better,

they died going to
aa meetings, or
preparing notes for the high school

history classes they

one died, behind stylish new glasses,
carrying coffee and pink pieces
of stationary

to his boss.

but the tyrants had been important people.
they had loved their
mothers, provided for

cooked fine meals-

and they have
died. all of
them are dead,
before nine o'clock in the evening,

hiding dead behind plato's republic,
the tyrants,

hiding death,
paranoia sweeping overhead the desert,
where stone
lions were built.

the tyrants
have all died.