What a country!  A tailgate party

at a needle and drug lynching


Chilly, damp and restless

die-hards shake scribbled signs,

jostle shoulder to shoulder

for a better view of the gate

to the Walls Unit,

proud home of Old Sparky,

the renown killing machine


Hunched troopers

in dirt brown cowboy hats,

bodies slack against

patrol car fenders

in flood light shadows,

linger for the final order,

midnight, Central Standard Time,

in the State of Texas,

home of Friday night football


The agitated mob shakes

the air with righteous fists

over a troubled man

they will never know,

maybe guilty, maybe not,

shackled in a cell

with his last platter

of tacos and ice cream


Locked together on that dim field

of primal animal instincts

they do not know history will

soon judge them for not knowing

they are about to cheer

another murder by proxy

in the land of the gun