I was surprised
how mundane the institution,
impervious to conversation,
inexorable, impersonal,
preparations and transport
were for my execution.
Led in cuffs to a jetty,
then into a small boat
with four handlers
bound for an island,
my escorts studied
paper forms, not me,
doing their job
in a bureaucracy.
The firing squad kneels in
front,
stands behind. “Take this target,
pin it to his chest,”
the corporal says.
Orders followed.
Over in a minute.
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