Before sunrise,
a red-blooded man
says he can cook
me a Bundy burger
if I want one...
Too early,
and it’s freezing outside
this Florida state prison.
The man finishes unloading
from his truck. Apparitions
of faces, dim-lit, come
into focus, clowns
with exaggerated smiles
wave. The crowd swells,
it’s a three-ring circus,
reporters are on standby,
parking lot ushers are directing traffic,
and vendors are selling coffee,
donuts, and pins.
“Paradise City” blares
from a car stereo.
Have you ever wanted a man to die so bad...?
What could be
a prayer is spat out
like chewing tobacco
in a can. Posters become tokens
with words in all caps––
“BURN, BUNDY, BURN!”
Jean jackets and trucker caps
sit on the back of pick-up trucks.
Neon bold windbreakers
cheer for justice. No cheese
on the burger, I think.
The killed and killer reside in one breath.
Who hasn’t thought of murder?
Someone offers me
a brewski.
Sure!
Never too early for that
and I join in on the chant,
BURN, BUNDY, BURN!
A man nods “Damn, straight.”
Another yells, “Today,
that evil son-of-a-bitch will die!”
The hollering comes in waves.
The pearly gates are stocked
with fireworks. The book
of life is in the hands of no
salvation. Inside, Bundy says
goodbye to his mother. He sits
on Old Sparky, strapped in,
the sponge is properly soaked
in saline. Two-thousand volts thunderbolt into his system––
his fists clench, a puff
of smoke lifts from his wedding band
then vanishes, in seconds,
his body goes limp.
Vengeance can make
a species extinct.
Tiny rockets explode
and break the wind.
The crowd chants,
“TED BUNDY IS DEAD.”
Hearts combust, the crowd
parties harder than before,
wishing they could have heard
the man’s brain sizzle.
Someone turns to me
and asks, “Are you hungry?
Tuesday is Fry Day!”
Why, yes, yes, I am.
I can eat.
