I drove a rural route through the woods,
late afternoon, and in the rear-view
the sun did time between the verticals
of black bar tree trunks – and I thought:
This is why I love prison stories
they are all exactly about me
Falsely accused, though maybe guilty as hell
about something else
but going down in a blaze of glory
and always always
in the solitary confinement
of a winter sunset
and when my car approaches the bridge
the red orb me is gone,
no color saturated reflection in the river
only pale vernix on gray water,
the ghost ripple of my escape.
Then flash back to the scene where,
though crammed into the metal box
a literal minute ago,
I am dragged out all filthy tatters, mottled skin
pinwheeling eyes and matted hair
to illustrate a cinematically punishing lapse of time.
On New Year’s Eve, I listened to the sculptor
frame his creative intention
about a ball of snow he carried in a cooler
south across the state line,
then jailed behind a locked gate
inside a cage crafted of wood and bamboo.
Eventually the snow would melt -
total transformation essential to its release.
This is why I love prison stories
they are all exactly about me.
Predictably, the governor’s pardon
arrives that melodramatic moment too late,
my fellow inmates sell me out
for a pack of cigarettes.
Good behavior is irrelevant,
the air ducts never lead
to the laundry chute
and with a filed-off spoon handle
I scrape a tunnel into concrete block
while I catalog the warden’s secrets,
biding my time
drop by drop.
