excitement about the poem was undiminished. He had repeatedly promised that he would
recite it for me when I visited him after the argument. When I arrived at the prison, Joe was
wheeled into the visitation area without any difficulty. I talked to him about the argument in
Washington, but he was much more interested in preparing me to hear his poem. I could tell
he was nervous about whether he’d be able to do it. I cut short my report about his case so I
could hear his poem. He closed his eyes to concentrate and then began to recite the lines:
Roses are red, violets are blue.
Soon I’ll come home to live with you.
My life will be better, happy I’ll be,
You’ll be like my Dad and my family.
We’ll have fun with our friends and others will see,
I’m a good person ... uh ... I’m a good person ... I’m ... a ... good ... person ... uh ...He couldn’t remember the last line. He looked up at the ceiling, then at the floor straining
to remember. He squeezed his eyes, trying to force the last words to mind, but they wouldn’t
come. I was tempted to supply him a line just to help him get through it—“so be happy for
me” or “now people will see.” But I realized that creating a line for him wasn’t the right thing
to do, so I just sat there.
Finally, he seemed to accept that he wouldn’t remember the line. I thought he’d be upset,
but when it was clear that he wouldn’t remember the last line, he just started laughing. I
smiled at him, relieved. For some reason it became funnier and funnier to him that he
couldn’t think of the last line—until he abruptly stopped laughing and looked at me.
“Oh, wait. I think the last line ... actually, uh, I think the last line is just what I said. The
last line is just ‘I’m a good person.’ ”
He paused, and I looked at him skeptically for several seconds. I said it before I thought
about it. “Really?”
I should have stopped, but I continued, “We’ll have fun with our friends and others will see,
I’m a good person?”
He looked at me for an instant with a serious expression, and then we both broke out
simultaneously in wild laughter. I wasn’t sure I should be laughing, but Joe was laughing,
which made me think it was okay. Honestly, I couldn’t help it. In a few seconds we were both
in hysterics. He was rocking in his wheelchair from side to side with laughter, clapping his
hands. I couldn’t stop laughing, either; I was trying hard to stop but failing. We looked at
each other as we laughed. I watched Joe, who laughed like a little boy, but I saw the lines in
his face and even the emergence of a few prematurely gray hairs on his head. I realized even
while I laughed that his unhappy childhood had been followed by unhappy, imprisoned
teenage years followed by unhappy incarceration through young adulthood. All of a sudden it
occurred to me what a miracle it was that he could still laugh. I thought about how wrong the
world is about Joe Sullivan and how much I wanted to win his case.
We both finally calmed down. I tried to speak as sincerely as I could manage. “Joe, it’s a
very, very nice poem.” I paused. “I think it’s beautiful.”
He beamed at me and clapped his hands.