'Bury
BY MICHAEL WEEMS I APRIL 29, 2009

"I don't like it, I don't like it at all."
His brief interruption causes an uneasy silence.
His eyes dart from face to blank face, 
The response, almost in unison, comes forth.
"Are you sure?"
The question rolls off their forked tongues,
Like bait for an unexpecting prey,
He starts to answer, but he thinks twice.
He envisions his lonely nights, little memories.
They relish upon his solitude, his suffering.
His fate hangs in the balance,
Depending upon whether or not he accepts the proposition.
His prosecutor's irritation grows.
"Wait a minute," he pauses,
"You're right, I do like it."

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