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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I sit atop my woeful vantage point Legs dangling in my bunkmate's face Limp, like willow branches hanging Eyes red, dark bags, temples banging I gaze upon my sad communal room A sea of men sequestered from reality Sleep deprived, seeking an escape Craving it in any form or shape They told me ten, or eight if well-behaved My penitence inside this concrete cage They told me men like me can find a way To cope until my liberation's day Easy for them to say... This tiny speck of what I hope is real Smuggled in by only God knows who or how Dissolved upon an orange plastic spoon Destined to console my afternoon I stare down at my hard-gotten syringe A secondhand, diabetic's pill-call side hustle Locked and loaded—its provenance disgusting to contemplate Still, three hours outside this fence—all on a silver plate My dangling legs have failed me once again Both arms refuse to lead me to my bliss All four, bound for hours at the veins Yet not a trace of snaky purple remains Years of this abuse have managed to collapse them all I feel the nurse's frustration at that last blood draw I've tried between my toes—it's no good too I've poked and probed and cursed, believe me you And so, as the men around me pass the endless hours Six-hour workouts, countless rounds of dominoes, lukewarm showers I'll chase my fleeting, numbing, pathetic reprieve Just one fortuitous prick and I'll be there Wasting away on this bunk, not a care
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