Doing Time
With my head on a swivel I spy the corners of my room like a prisoner with a slit for a window and a gym mat for a bed. Plotting and wondering about my next move, because that’s all you got to do. Except for the few moments you are outside or when you get mess call to prepare meals. It’s a routine with a hierarchy born out of intimidation and necessity. Where everything’s a little game you have to play, the side hustle, the secret deals. Funny thing about this prison, is it’s all voluntary. No one sentenced you other than yourself. But you stay because you have to, because you’re needed, because you think you got nowhere else to go. So you serve your time, till a hearse finally rolls you out and they bury you in the cold, cold ground. Don’t sound like much and it doesn’t mean there isn’t a little excitement. Like a visit from a friend or a phone call or two, don’t forget the long letters home that get spied upon by god knows who. So you don’t think about it much—you...