cuffed and stuffed,
tagged and thrown
into a cell of fourteen.
plaster walls,
cold iron bars,
playing poker for smokes.
drunks, thieves,
an axe murderer no one spoke.
and crazy old Walt,
spinning stories for all.
town barber, church deacon,
came home to find his wife
in bed with a friend.
had been drunk ever since,
more time in than out.
still said a prayer
when he thought that
no one could see.
watered down coffee,
grey food on metal plates.
sometimes a scuffle,
usually just words.
time passed in an opium dream.
looking through the bars,
out the lone window.
i watched the leaves turn,
then fall,
as the days grew shorter.
now those leaves have turned,
the same or different,
no matter.
and freedom seems as far,
behind the bars of my life!