I was not the criminal.
He was visiting with his mother
Down the road,
The way that criminals tend to do.
So I told these folks who looked
And listened without releasing
The scales of justice from their trembling hands.
The courthouse clock was a marvel of stability,
Watching Frankie down below get stabbed in the rain
And Johnny drink a pint of turpentine outside the general store.
“I will slay you all,” I stood and shouted,
And heard the assembled shout in reply,
Seeking the last word it was not
For them to appropriate,
“When you rise to the level of your own deceit,
You better just sit yourself back down again.
We’ve been dealing with you monkeys
A long, long time.”
“Hah,” I retorted. “There can be no settled claims
In an unholy land, the pleasure of my company
The highpoint of your flat-lined lives.”September 2003