Justice

by SL Ruth
My Dad's death began last February
in reverse-action sequence;
no witnesses were called,
no expert stepped forth to exonerate,
no miracles, no bribery, no parole,
no mercy: simply
a youthful doctor, acting as bailiff,
who read the verdict,
pronounced the sentence.
There would be no appeal.
No manipulating the system,
only a short term wait on death row
while his body, strong and athletic,
until he heard the news, was poisoned with chemicals;
not in lethal injection, nor hiss of gas,
but in tiny increments, was he dosed to death.

Fallen locks of his magnificent, white, thick, silken hair,
lay like silver threads on his navy windbreaker
and as mementoes on the back of his vacated easy chair;
slender strands we find clinging on things still living,
like the pink azalea blossoms by the front porch,
I was startled to find one there
from the day I shook his jacket;
and on the raised fur of his new house slippers
where arch had not time to compress,
but worse, across my mother's open palm.
My Dad died in December,
as he had lived, in quiet dignity,
surrounded by his sweetheart and children,
as strong, and true, and responsible
in death as he was in life:
an example for good.

Now comes forth witnesses,
with tear-stained faces and wet handkerchiefs
to bear testimony of him,
to caress his lifeless brow,
and pat the shoulder of his best brown suit;
Would their testimony had been as stong in February
before the Judgment sentenced him,
if not to save,
at least, he could have known
that we wanted a good fight for justice.