The Prison Tourist
       

Where the prisoner burned
no paint takes
no tool erases You imagine him still alive
mirrors for eyes
a machine of hours stamping them around
the clock until he'd made more than
anyone could stand
until time clattered like shackles
through ammoniac halls

The others
would learn that dread
of days to come exceeds
the endless crime of remembrance

You side with the long-gone crowd

The hours must be stopped

The target slipped into the crosshairs of a hot summer
Fire piled up towards the outside
and even though few knew his name
they recalled the carbon smoke
of time killed

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Copyright © 2016 Jessica L. Walsh All rights reserved
from How to Break My Neck
ELJ Publications
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission