They fought in heavy armor
or, nimbly, with net and trident;
if lucky, against wild beasts,
but mostly against their brothers.

Criminals, captives, slaves,
what did they have to lose?
And the cheers egged them on,
as they waded through shit and blood.

When Claudius gave the sign
the throats of the fallen were cut
in the shade of the royal box:
he fancied their dying looks.

Domitian’s coarser itch
was to set cripples on cripples.
No entertainment matched
the sport of their hacking and bleating.

Trajan’s phantasmagoric show,
lasting a hundred days, 
used up five thousand pairs
of jocks—and the count resumes.

A monk climbs out of the stands,
he is running onto the field,
he is waving his scrawny arms
to interrupt the games.

The mob tears him to bits.
Tomorrow the gates will be closed,
but the promised Crusades will start
with a torchlight children’s parade.