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.