Waiter

Cold concrete and chains clinking loud;

loud in an echoing room.

You pick up the fork and then set it down.

You know why you're here, don't you?

Blood on the tile, and violence feels good--

better, at least, than it likely should;

chains clink loud,

but they can't hold you down

when the pain pangs deep in your teeth.

Too much time living too much life

and you were only left so dissatisfied:

minutes like glaciers and years like a shot

and you watched the sand

trickle down,

slide,

stop.

You used to pray to God to give you a sign.

On death row, He's served you

a plate of cold spaghetti.