Taste
I don't remember being nervous
on the day of my execution.
When they led me to the Chamber,
I was just kind of numb.
I couldn't think.
Not about anything.
Try as I might all I came up with was
taste.
Chicken legs,
lightly powdered with flour
a few herbs and Season-All,
and then fried to all Hell.
I clearly remember feeling embarrassed,
as a grey man
in a grey uniform
strapped me into the Chair.
I could have had anything,
lobster, crayfish, a roast lamb,
or one of those small steaks with bacon pinned to the sides,
I loved those.
But no, I had chicken legs.
Like I always did.
Poetry by Blue River
Read 642 times
Written on 2009-02-06 at 12:13
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