The uncertain jihadist seeks pain,
pours salt into his palm,
slapping it on the furuncle
on his neck. His once fervent,
bearded colleagues in pieces
too small for evidence.

Today no tea or hard
candy. His remaining
fortune, a prune
emerald with mold,
rolls off the hinky table.
Becoming animate, he rises

to greet the international
police battering down
the door, raises his arms
happy to be alive
no more decisions
to make.

-this was my cv2 entry 2 day poem contest.
The Man in the Hat, if we’ve already forgoten was a bomber that didn’t blow himself up like the three others. He was referred to as the Man in the Hat because he was wearing one in the surveillance video.

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