McGladdery’s Last Night
Mid-winter-a few short days to Yuletide
Lies back upon a single bunk and stares at a grimy mottled ceiling
Hands behind head—a now familiar pose—practised often lately
Thinking of a night eleven months ago—and recalling evil feelings.
The pipes emit a little warmth-enough to repel the chill,
of a cell that has housed only sixteen other kindred souls–
those who have trod the same ingrained landings—and took
the few faltering steps into the chamber while the death bell tolls.
Mother came earlier but talk was hard to find
The reverend Vance tried his best to shine an everlasting light–
An occasional turnkey lifted up the hatch to peer at this damned being—
five months since the last one dangled on a July morn so bright.
Silence in these last few breathing hours will compress a mind
that needs to communicate—to unburden his core of this terrible guilt-
-a need to tell it how it was—open up his black heart-unburden himself
discharge that coldness and emancipate for a young girls lifeblood spilled.
A light that won’t go out—the constant checks to ensure he remains alive
until a prearranged eradicator comes to dispatch him well–
the early morning stirrings—the dark dawn scrapes and shuffles from the landing
“C” wing comes awake in anticipation of the dreaded tolling bell.
No more sleep—a succession of governors and hangers-on arrive,
to offer bogus sympathy and to have a long last look and shake their heads,
and give him one more chance to confess to killing Pearl,
to offer up his spirit, to wipe his conscience clean and be free from dread.
Gruel and bread and margarine the fare to send him on his way,
a clamour from the walkways heralds another dismal dreary Crumlin day–
The door opens and Mister Vance approaches once again—one last chance,
to make public what he has hidden from that January night in Upper Damolly.
Seven o’clock and the fellow inmates are returned once more to cells,
a lock down in the countdown to the dead man about to walk,
Robert’s responsibility has been relieved to the chaplain of the jail
the final precious minutes are sliding swiftly from the clock.
An entourage arrives—solemn looking men-and usher him toward the hanging cell,
to meet Harry Allen—his dapper bow tied nemesis—holding leather straps—he of
twenty nine other legal lynchings and many collaborations in the past,
whose bryllcremed hair will be the last prison smell before the dreaded drop.
We are all condemned persons in the eyes of the God, Vance had explained–
although of little consolation to Robert now, as the hood enfolds his head,
Harry encircles his neck—expertly—with the calculated length of rope-steps back
pulls the lever and at eight a.m. drops McGladdery—and waits—until he is pronounced—dead.
