A Death-Bed Poem by James McLain

No one wants to sleep in this bed but some must.
The state has a taste for pasty death.
Witnesses testified as much and so they should.
Pale well fed better than some on the streets.
Muscular arms full of veins law-i.v. school.
Politicians racking up points in the polls.
Faces pressed against the window payne.
The lights never dim as once again they did.
Muscles clinch
beneath his neck as eyes begin to flutter.
Breathing stopped.