MARK
On this planet for sixteen years now,
On trial for murder in the first degree now.
Prosecutors pushing hard for death row,
Or life with no parole in a cage, at least.
Deliberation done,
The jury files in,
The verdict, a lesser one,
Manslaughter.
Your cool stare does not change,
Affectation flat the doctors say.
Do you understand what has happened here?
"It's what I was hoping for," you say.
Six years at Angola,
You'll be a man when you emerge,
I.Q. of sixty-five and the felon's brand
To start you through your life as a man.
"911, the baby's not breathing."
The baby was beaten to death.
Ruptured liver, contused lung,
A pubic hair stuck on torn anus.
Mama's a whore and her lover is crack,
Tend your sister and your older brother
With his syphilitic brain.
Mind your baby nephew too, because mama's on the street
And it's visitor's day at Parish Prison.
"911, the baby's not breathing,
I came back from the store and
Found him on the floor and
he's having trouble breathing."
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1993. David J. L'Hoste. All rights reserved.