The old housekeeper
     the one with kindly eyes
     and a fondness for shawls
was screaming —
   the old man was on the veranda
  a pistol in his hand —
I had only just been told
         by my commander,
       as I rushed onto the tiles,
       to stop the general
            from killing himself,
and I could see then, in that instant, in his eyes,
    the end game of the piece
    as he pointed his pistol at me:
if I did not fire first,
   he would kill me, and then himself,
if I did fire,
   he would have what he most wanted.

It was as if the long sweep of destiny
had conspired for that moment
to give the old man, in his most vainglorious moment
his exuent,
and I realized then,
    after a long yearning,
that the police state protects nothing,
and produces only:
   failure and self-destruction.