Watching a Psychopath
by Austin Alexis


You concentrate
on the meek-brown color of his hair
as he stands humbly
in the eyes of the courtroom,
a mere twelve feet away from
the strangle of your fingers.

You concentrate
on what you imagine is
the feather weight
of his hair on his forehead
to keep from musing on
the heft of those blows
he delivered to your brother,
the cracked skull he caused. The death.

You concentrate
on how ordinary he looks
bagged in orange prison garb
and sweet-smelling sweat--
the sour look of him, smug,
as if he's eaten and digested
the monster that was his soul
and all that remains is
his sated body
greedily breathing
the air it doesn't deserve.





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