I Was Born To Hang

he’s got a face like a rotted pear, eyes yellow as the bottom of a cheap pint glass. his hands move like old leather belts— cracked, heavy, well-worn. he counts the minutes like coins dropped in a greasy pocket— clinks them together— a smile as sour as sweat on a Monday morning. he watches me, one boot on the scaffold’s edge, smoke curling from his lips like something alive, like the ghost of all the men before me— he’s seen it all: the tremble, the prayer, the final piss soaking the gallows floor. he knows I was born for this, born to hang, and he’s got nothing else better to do.