Espresso At The Execution

No clue in those eyes. They crack
all these smooth faces
like freezing blood blows out a vein.
Sitting hard on hard wood, he clenches
and unclenches
as if he were kneading
the soft stupid clay
of your brain. His back snaps
straight as the voltage
of his voice, stronger
than you thought, clenches
your spine. Your back straightens
in the chair. It’s poetry, the theater
of murder, and you
just bought a ticket.

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