Death Row
I walk down the hallway
Of what we used to call
An “Old folk’s home.”
No hope in these hallways.
Everyone here has been
Condemned to die.
The threat of death is found
Around every corner,
Behind every door.
It infects the air.
It infects the bodies.
I see the Grim Reaper,
Scythe in hand, stroll
These hallways,
Popping in for short visits
From time to time.
All of these people,
Whether waiting for the needle
Or the chair
Or the body to just give out
Are sentenced
To spend their final days
Condemned to Death Row.
Roy W. Backes
© 2019
Roy W. Backes - Poetry 