another blue bird

I scratch
the nail into the wall
of my cell.
make another mark.
grinding the dull point
into the limestone
wall.
the floor is wet.
the bars
are ice cold as I sit
on the stiff
thin
bed they've given me.
I smell
the grunge of others.
I hear
the rats
plotting their own
plans
in the tunnels.
the grunts and groans
of cellmates
down the row.
there is no light but
the bare
bulb that swings its 40 watts
over my crude sink,
my metal mirror,
my toilet.
I scratch out another
day, then look
to the window above
where I see the miracle
of a bluebird
on the sill.
he's singing a song.
I know that song.
there is hope.