the reformatory

they've turned the old prison
into an art gallery,
a place for artists to paint
and carve, to sculpt out
of stone what pleases them,
to spin on a wheel red clay
into a jar.
the guards are gone.
no one is in the gun tower.
the electric fence is numb
with current.
the barbed wired torn
down. posters adorn
the high walls in spring colors
of green and gold,
blues and soft hues of brown.
hardly a thought goes
into thinking what went on
here before. at the gate
you get a map, a list
of the artists, prices
in a folded brochure.