too spent
to calculate the sum
of scattered thoughts
bent forward,
hands folded in front of his face,
like that sunday school painting
of jesus in the garden
praying for a way out…
just to be moving,
he gets to his feet,
& walks to the small
cell window,
where he stares
at the silhouetted tree line,
ranked like a firing squad,
along the river
somewhere close by,
a steel door slams –
grave voices echo
like old business
along the concrete
corridor
the group moves quickly;
each carrying
his own weighted notions
of right & wrong
one of them also
carries an official,
clarifying document
to be read aloud –
for the people’s comfort
another carries
a battered copy
of the king james bible
to be read aloud –
for the prisoner’s comfort
later, both will be used
again –
to explain
what makes this right…