Jailhouse Poetry

When I hear the sound of hard shoes clapping against the tiled floor, I connect it with the memory of jingling keys and barred doors that won’t open.

I think of the 3 A.M. drunks that dry-heave in stainless steel toilets,

and the first time-offenders, or “Keepers,” as they called us.

They called us keepers because we were older than the under-aged throwbacks, and old enough to be tried as adults.

I think about the guards and their perverted laugh as they locked the door to my cell

When I see a county bus passing with steel-meshed windows, 

I think about being linked to other convicts and a cold bus ride to the courthouse.

I think about the holding cells and the smell of inmates in overcrowded bullpens.

I think about the convict lawyers that know the system but never seem to beat it.

I am reminded of the public defenders that stand on the outside of cages and speak to the criminals that wait on the inside.

When I hear the sound of hard shoes clapping against the tiled floor, I connect it with the sound of angry bailiffs, and handcuffs clicking into position.

I think about the boy I was,

the man I wasn’t prepared to be,

and the person I was afraid to become.

I think about the paths I chose, where they led me to, and how fortunate I am to be where I’m at now…

The other day,

I listened to a kid from the neighborhood brag about his first trip down to the precinct.

He laughed….

I laughed when I was his age too

Until they locked the cell, that is.

After that, nothing was so funny anymore.