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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required They strap him down like a piece of furniture they’re tired of looking at. White room. White gloves. White lies. Then the switch, the needle, the quiet that sounds like a slammed door. Afterward there’s no ceremony. No prayers left in the corners. Just a body-shaped memory sweating into steel. Someone has to mop it. Someone always does. Not the warden. Not the chaplain. Not the men who signed the papers from clean desks. It’s the inmate with the bad eyes who always does, he cannot refuse. He read all of those books books. The westerns writen by Louis La amour he is reading and he keeps his head down, like the goat he is the one who knows how to follow orders. They hand him gloves too thin and a bucket that smells like bleach and regret. Tell him: scrub it like it matters. There’s blood where the needle slipped. Urine on the floor. A little vomit near the drain. A toe tag still warm. He wipes the chair, the straps, the metal tray, the wall where the condemned stared for the last ten minutes of his life. No talking. No pausing. No shaking. If he refuses they write him up. They take his yard privileges. They take his phone calls. They take his commissary. They put him in the box, where the light never quite goes off and the air tastes like rust. So he cleans. Because time is heavier than pride. Because punishment stacks. Because tomorrow could be his turn to stand where the ghost is still standing. When he’s done, the room looks new again. Like nothing ever happened. Like death never clocked in. They lock the door. Wheel in the next man. And somewhere down the hall a mop drips slowly like it’s counting the minutes and the lost in the rooms. After they moved through the world , they said : was a privilege, to be part of the the system that was, considered murder by the M.E. who did the autopsy on the condemned prisoners body after the execution.
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