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LEAVING DEATH ROW
Fifteen years from
home and I'm maxed out.
My stuffs all packed.
Boxes bulge with
Tattered legal briefs
and lost appeals,
Stacks of tear-stained
letters and the collection
Of haunting photographs
of old girlfriends.
Can't leave without
hollerin' at the homies.
The brother with no
TV gets my portable zenith.
The aspiring young
rapper earned my radio.
The George Jackson
wanna-be needs my books.
And even though the
old con downstairs
Ain't got but one
leg left-Let him have my scruffy old shoes.
Because where I'm
going I won't be needing them.
I went out like this
and winged back
Plenty of times-From
the lush landscapes of day dreams,
The deep blue infinity
of madness.
All the way from the
last-minute reprieve
Of the executioner's
potion-One way or the other
I'm leaving death
row.
Reginald Sinclair Lewis
# Ay-2902
1040 East Roy Furman
Highway Waynesburg, PA 15370-8090
Maybe I'll write a movie in Hollywood.
Perhaps a classic American novel.
Lyrics for songs.
Maybe even a Broadway play.
Or a book of prize-winning poems.
Maybe I'll even write about me.
Maybe I'll get around to doing
All those things. You'lI see.
Maybe I'll die before I do anything.
Who knows?
Reginald Sinclair Lewis
# Ay-2902
1040 East Roy Furman
Highway Waynesburg, PA 15370-8090
©
1996
Who Knows?
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