Set

You should be screaming
the news
Are heralds nascitur, non fit?
Is the top of your lungs
A height you can’t climb, as of yet?

There’s barely no one,
No one who’s set,
Ready, seated, on the jet
To carry the king’s news,
Delivered with the king’s hands,
Remembered in the king’s words

Not telephoned and graphed,
But heard,
Each syllable a public-private pirouette
In thirds
These servants three
Kilo Alpha Charlie
Tending to their master’s birds