The Old Penitentiary, Boise

A plain table big enough for a few chairs 
faces the plate glass execution room, 
light and airy with ample space 
to die. Below, not so close to heaven, 
Rows of stiff cells carry the pall. 
Did the rose garden, crisp under the 
brittle blue sky, give them pleasure 
as they walked to the ruined mess hall, 
to the blank asphalt recreation ground, 
or to solitary confinement in cement coffins? 
Thick and solid, these will last longest. 
The stones crumble standing, 
A temple for just rites.