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Morning in Different Places

by Lisa Blumberg

Sunrise in the sky,

over water,

purple into pink, blending with blue,

golden glints and aqua sparkles,

light plays on the balcony in beige,

where I gaze, entranced.

But I must know the news from home.

I go in and call Connecticut.

No state execution there in forty five years

and at the last moment, none last night,

no needle in a strapped down arm,

pulling away all thought as he did with the girls.

For him, now the prospect that

he will spend all his natural life

in a landlocked prison,

in a gray sided cell

with a window so high and small

that he is only conscious that

every twenty four hours, it becomes day.

Confined to his enclosure,

he may, perhaps, pace, pace and pace,

and even, with momentum up,

whirl, whirl and whirl at any time

but always view the walls.

Glass door open, I return to the balcony,

touching stucco for support as

I clear the threshold to the outside.

My restrictions, mere muscle and bone,

I wave to the horizon,

Smiling to the sea, I dance in the morning.

NOTE: On January 29, 2005, I was on a short vacation in Naples, Florida.
In bitterly cold Connecticut, the execution pf a convicted
serial killer was scheduled for 2 a.m. It was halted
at 1 a.m. as a result of the combined efforts of the public defenders,
the best private criminal lawyers in the state and a federal
judge. The delay lasted until spring.

Lisa Blumberg is a corporate lawyer and freelance writer. Her last poem on Ragged Edge was Privacy. Read her articles Deja Vu and Playing Cards at Boston Children's Hospital.