florida's current governor
he signs death like he signs autographs—
quick, proud, no eye contact.
the ink smells of burnt orange peel and sweat.
he’s got the sun behind him,
and a pen that tastes of rust.
the papers call it “justice served,”
but i see a man trying to outpace his own shadow,
killing the ghosts before they vote again.
he changes the rules—
twelve men in a room,
now only eight have to agree
that a man deserves to die.
he smiles for the cameras,
says it’s for the victims,
but the ghosts nod off in the gallery,
too tired to haunt the living anymore.
they say it’s quicker now,
no more appeals that last a lifetime—
just a warrant, a date, a needle.
a machine that hums efficiency
in the land of oranges and hurricanes.
he calls it strength.
the newspapers call it leadership.
the preachers call it divine.
but the dead call it silence.
you can’t see mercy in the muggy air,
only steam rising from asphalt
and the sound of another man’s name
being crossed off the list.
politics is a blood thirsty business,
and power drinks best from a warm vein.
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