Dead Man Walking
Sept 30 2008


A man stumbles,
dodging a puddle in the courtyard.
Despite a firm hand on one shoulder,
and a last meal
lying like lead in his gut,
he will keep his feet dry
his prison shoes
untouched.

This is the reflex we all share,
turning away from death
unable to contain
its mystery, its terror.
An act of defiance, perhaps
— that this hard man
still has his pride.
But more likely, denial;
still sure the governor will call
the real murderer confess
the killing machine
malfunction.

The prospect of death
concentrates the mind wonderfully.
I imagine he saw the water glint
rippling across his reflection;
and the wet cobblestones, now rust-red,
incandescent
in the long light of dawn.

For just an instant
he felt the hand tighten,
and this small sensation filled him.
An anonymous stranger
he thought,
as his body was marched-off to the gallows;
the last time he will ever be touched.