Up again at three,
Before the bellowing guards and shuffling feet,
The fluorescent dawn still hours away…
Hands too soft for hard labor
Dig crusty scales of brief escape
From the corners of watery eyes.
Hope dims as focus returns.
From my perch I survey
A sea of black iron bunks.
Shallow snores, dry coughs, wet farts.
Their dreams like their tattoos:
Crude and incomplete,...
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