I work the graveyard shift in a city of believers
hunched over a steel desk in a cone of light
facing a window with drawn blinds
beyond which the innocents are being slaughtered
in an enormous courtyard against all four walls
firing squads rotating around the clock
while masked men in the watchtowers
keep count in red ink on red pads
simultaneously recording and concealing
the numbers of dead
and nodding with each round of gunfire
mumbling praise to their leader
and his god whose righteousness and mercy
he mirrors while I keep to my work
with bowed head and unblinking eyes
sorting papers affixing stamps
having long ago given up trying
to stop my ears or black out my fear
my face burning not with shame but exhaustion
for I only sleep a few hours a night
and I eat once a day
cold scrapple and rice porridge
like a prisoner myself
in a cell that requires no locks
unable to recognize my own handwriting
even when I’ve left myself a note
reminding me of who I once was but never
(anymore) what I might have been
which later I crumple and burn
in a standard issue ashtray
the momentary lick of flame
no more or less remote to me than a star