Weekender

Lights out,
10 p.m.
A faint glow
filters through
the 12″ X 12″
barred window
of the corridor door,
casting two long
parallel shadows
down the cell block hall.
During my first night
among weekenders,
those of us
who did our jail time
on weekends,
whose crimes weren’t
severe enough
to warrant a cell
with more
hardened criminals,
I discovered that
squinting my eyes
superimposed
the bars of my cell
over the shadows
in the hall
creating
a makeshift
tic-tac-toe pattern.
Bored,
I played the child’s game
for hours,
lying on
a top bunk,
mentally drawing
Xs and Os
until my eyes
grew tired of the
no win game.
Cheating,
I drew a line
through three Xs,
closed my eyes,
thought of home,
dozed to the sounds
of my cell mates:
one praying,
the other
mumbling profanities
in his sleep.

**

poems

…incubate
at the edge
of the woods,
emerging like mushrooms
shrugging off
a coat of autumn leaves.
their aroma
sweetens
the cool crisp air.
their spores cling to you
until you wash them off
or write them down.