
<html><body bgcolor="#FFFFFF"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); font-size: 14px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 23px; "><h1 class="entry-title" style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, 'Nimbus Sans L', sans-serif; font-style: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-left: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); text-rendering: optimizelegibility; letter-spacing: 0px; font-size: 20px; line-height: 24px; ">"The Execution, a poem" <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-size: 17px; ">By Alden Nowlan</span></h1></span><div> </div><div><span>On the night of the execution</span><br><span>a man at the door</span><br><span>mistook me for the coroner.</span><br><span>“Press,” I said.</span><br><span></span><br><span>But he didn’t understand. He led me</span><br><span>into the wrong room</span><br><span>where the sheriff greeted me:</span><br><span>“You’re late, Padre.”</span><br><span></span><br><span>“You’re wrong,” I told him. “I’m Press.”</span><br><span>“Yes, of course, Reverend Press.”</span><br><span>We went down a stairway.</span><br><span></span><br><span>“Ah, Mr. Ellis,” said the Deputy.</span><br><span>“Press!” I shouted. But he shoved me</span><br><span>through a black curtain.</span><br><span>The lights were so bright</span><br><span>I couldn’t see the faces</span><br><span>of the men sitting</span><br><span>opposite. But, thank God, I thought</span><br><span>they can see me!</span><br><span></span><br><span>“Look!” I cried. “Look at my face!</span><br><span>Doesn’t anybody know me?”</span><br><span></span><br><span>Then a hood covered my head.</span><br><span>“Don’t make it harder for us,” the hangman whispered.</span></div><div><br></div><div><span></span>------------------------------<br><span></span><span></span> <br><span>Seeya round town, Moscow.</span><br><span></span><br><span>Tom Hansen</span><br><span>Moscow, Idaho</span><br><span></span><br><span>"If not us, who?</span><br><span>If not now, when?"</span><br><span></span><br><span>- Unknown</span><br><span></span><br><span></span><br></div></div><div></div></body></html>