A condemned man
Is careful around electrical gadgets
In his leaky cement cell.
The shiv under the mattress
With its rusty blade
Is innocent compared to the radio
Which only picks up gospel.
One frivolous spin of the dial and
Amazing Grace becomes
Go Tell it on the Mountain.
The bars don’t prevent escape
From the sentence.
On an overcast day, guards will lead
Him cautiously into the chair,
The switch will be pulled
By a hooded minotaur.
There will be the audience
Of mortals sobbing for the life
They’ve yet to lose
Behind the dark glass.
But for now, he’s on edge.
In the prison a few of us are walking
The corridor, which stretches on
For days in either direction.
A faint television can be heard.
It’s a sitcom, but no one is
Laughing despite the actors’ faked fall.
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