Cecilia Lee
They gathered the pitchforks, matches, and shovels-
got me surrounded from all sides.
What can I do but surrender?
Tired of running and too exposed to hide.
Small town crime,
it happens all the time.
I should have known by the third wind chime,
there was nowhere else to run.
A solemn organ tune with faces pulled taut.
They let me pick the flowers,
forget-me-nots.
I walk down the aisle,
black dress swaying to the beat of the death march playing.
He dug the grave,
a friend of a friend’s father,
getting clarity, seven feet in all,
six to bury treasure,
an extra for good measure.
Another small town scapegoat
here to take the fall.