Nooseman

your voice is a fat loop
of negotiation, singed
blithely on cannon sparks.
the springing cogs slip
a little faster past
your name, haranguing
to their neighbors. they play
beside your demands,
sounding cheekily between
words that snap us. i see
your gloat swelling: a red
bob of plastic that dunks
when you cast that doubt
and reel it, nodding in sober
regret. the end you've angled
is wearing another man's faith
on his face, to shine yours familiar.
there's you, lasso neck!
even your spit is silver.
we might've been fooled
again.