A Poem About George Doty In The Death House

 Lured by the wall, and drawn
To stare below the roof,
Where pigeons nest aloof
From prowling cats and men,
I count the sash and bar
Secured to granite stone,
And note the daylight gone,
Supper and silence near.


Close to the wall inside,
Immured, empty of love,
A man I have wondered of
Lies patient, vacant-eye.

A month and a day ago
He stopped his car and found
A girl on the darkening ground,
And killed her in the snow.


Beside his cell, I am told,
Hardy perennial bums
Complain till twilight comes
For hunger and for cold.

They hardly know of a day
That saw their hunger pass.

Bred to the dark, their flesh
Peacefully withers away.


The man who sits alone,
He is the one for wonder,
Who sways his fingers under
The cleanly shaven chin,
Who sees, in the shaving mirror
Pinned to the barren wall,
The uprooted ghost of all:
The simple, easy terror.


Caught between sky and earth,
Poor stupid animal,
Stripped naked to the wall,
He saw the blundered birth
Of daemons beyond sound.

Sick of the dark, he rose
For love, and now he goes
Back to the broken ground.


Now, as he grips the chain
And holds the wall, to bear
What no man ever bore,
He hears the bums complain;
But I mourn no soul but his,
Not even the bums who die,
Nor the homely girl whose cry
Crumbled his pleading kiss.

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