I am sitting in state
looking down on the arena.
After the opening fanfare
the gladiators emerge.
On my right the editors,
victors of many such encounters,
carrying spears and short swords.
Oxhide shields protect
their powerful oiled bodies.
On my left the lawyers,
the best of the best,
with their nets, tridents and javelins.
Their legendary speed and agility
leave them in no doubt of the outcome.
I rise
and give my assent
for the games to begin.
For 90 minutes,
to roars from the crowd,
the opposing forces fight to the death.
No mercy is shown by either side.
Little by little
the numbers are reduced.
An editor
with a final thrust
puts an agonising end
to a lawyer’s disgraceful life.
A lawyer brings to a close
decades of editorial abominations,
as his mortally-wounded opponent
breathes his last
on the blood-drenched sand.
Finally
one champion alone remains alive.
Despite his terrible injuries
he crawls across the arena,
struggles to his feet
and stands reeling
before the imperial box,
holding his broken sword aloft
in homage.
He waits, head bowed,
to learn his fate.
I turn down my thumb.