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