Guiltroversion

It’s been more than five years

since I took that man’s life from him.

I mean, he did walk into the shooting gallery,

he did know the risks of his behavior,

and I was (mostly) innocent until that week.

I mean, I was (and am) guilty of other things,

my own history is as a...

pockmarked body, covered by adhesive strips,

the color of not-flesh flesh, and remorse shows

at the edges where the dirt of my conscience

collects and refuses to be cleansed away.

And, taking his life—that requires another

bandage, a pretty big one this time (and

I thought I was innocent until that week).

I sat there, among my peers:

others, just like me,

covered in bandages

and long sleeves and slacks

and scarfs and neckties

—and everyone’s attentions were given to him.

(This was, perhaps, the first time

in his entire life that he was

given so much of anything

by folks he didn’t know.)

And, he said nothing;

others spoke for him

and about him,

and we, too,

when it was our turn,

did the same.

And we gave him so much

of our time and energy,

we risked getting caught

smoking in the bathroom,

we had lunch together,

and we worked hard together

to decide his fate.

I hear he got 80 years for his crimes.

There’s no bandage can hide that.