the death row interview

They told me that he is a psychopath,

The blackness weighing heavy on his soul,

Not that he’s aware.

I smooth my scarlet business suit

Adjust a hair that’s flown away.

I wonder if he’ll notice things like that?

I wonder if he’ll zone in on my lips,

Painted red, thinking of a crime in life

That ripped a world apart?

They told me that he doesn’t care,

Even with the chains that clink

As he walks, never free to run again.

There is a chill that lingers in the air

As those chocolate eyes begin to bore

Through plate glass, the hissing of his voice

Through the telephone I clutch.

I fear that evil works it way

Down the line, into my brain,

Could he touch me? Could he break the glass?

Evil touches us despite those barriers

That save us from their solid hands,

But not from what can wrap its arms around

Our fragile bodies, ready to infect.

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