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Poem: “Thirteenth Station”

Thirteenth Station
Good Friday

He’s dead? Already?
I was sure he would remain,
A living human stain,
Hanging up there, he should have been good
For another few hours of gory food.
I cannot believe this news.
You are sure? You saw it too?
Really?
Fine.
Do what you will. Take him down.
Let him be buried or thrown
Out. Get rid of the body. I see
Nothing more to this man’s story.
He’s dead and gone,
He’s dead and gone.

Matthew B. Rose