By Tony Covatta

Three dead in pools of blood, 

not by me,

 but convicted, appeals denied, 

I die tomorrow. 

6×8 room, iron walls and door,

 concrete slab for my last night.

Ever expanding dread consumes me.

 A knock.  It’s the warden, hand outstretched: 

“Clemency from the governor. Shake hands?” 

“Yes, I will. Yes.” 

                                                          *   *  *

Tony Covatta has been published in The New Republic and elsewhere. He is a retired attorney and college English teacher, now trying his hand at fiction, flash and longer.