Promotion

by Thomas D. Reynolds

You listen
when I talk,
though the accent
is clipped.

My long thin face
and prehensile tail
repulse you
but your face is a mask.

Then fear engulfs you
as you turn away
to control your shaking
and sob into your palms.

My voice is metallic
with the precision of gears.
Even my slightest utterance
scrapes like steel.

You watch me
walk among the dead,
weapon yet pulsing,
and signal to the guards.

When they secure your arms,
your stoic demeanor
dissolves into terror,
though surrender is impossible.

We should have a ceremony!
As the only survivor,
you are deemed captain
of this now defunct ship.

Never would you have imagined
that you, the chief cook
and running joke of the officers,
would rise to commander.

You should be proud,
not cowering on the floor
causing the left guard
to prod you with his claw.

You will give us
the secret information
no other would provide,
for you are beyond weak.

Yes, even now the duties
of your lofty station
press upon you.
Are those worry lines?

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