He watched through what seemed an hourglass,

in passing minutes left for the fate of his son.

With needles plugged coarse of his veins.

Others observing by, with stiff necks

and fingers at him in the one-way

 window. Revenge in their eyes,

of relief and joy for their

 behalves, shot down

with a gun

gone

:

:

:

:

done

the fluids

draining as cold

steel spikes in his wrist

nailing the glass with words

hate, and his father praying why

he was not there for him remembering

 solitary dark areas of his son’s childhood

while executioners pulled the last switch to time

   My son is innocent; he wanted to tell them, My son-