Sitting in the most uncomfortable chair
ever made, sweat and brine rolling
down my face. Faces stare at me, some
calm, some hateful, others weep, whether
the tears are for me, I don't know.
Knowing that death is a short sigh away,
I don't know who to beg forgiveness
from, people here or someone elsewhere.
Where the current will take me, I am
unsure; regardless I will see someone I
know in either place. Placing the cap
on my head, he pats my shoulder and
steps away, I can see him later,
reading the poems I scratched into
the cell wall with a small stone
I picked up long before, he
wonders to himself what a poet would
be doing here. Here and now, I wonder the same thing.

07/10/2003

Posted on 07/10/2003
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