Back To Where It Came From

The judge with unresolved grudges takes heed of institutional nudges,
The death penalty on his lips,
Surveying the soon to be condemned without the hope of last minute rearranges.
Surveying the condemned's sins dully cocooning his eyes, following the condemned's breath, just a blip.

The man standing in front of him looking like he's been bitten by snake.
Ragged from the eyes down,
A smoker with a yellow forefinger and thumb, tired of the wait.
Up against the wall of justice , and the moment they strap him down.

A man protected by the paradox of tomorrow.
Tomorrows he has previewed in and out of prisons.
Time that cannot be lent or borrowed.
His already dead part, on a flight of fancy , to see what is and what isn't.

The judge grunts, weekend golf thoughts mixed with the hardness of what's to come.
For just a second he can smell the insecticide of an exterminator, but it passes and goes back to where it came from.