doing time

when I was in prison

I used to talk to the mice,
have long
conversations with them about life.

when are we getting out of here
i'd whisper.

seeing them scurry from cell
to cell
on soft little feet.

but they never answered.

at night with a sliver of moon
coming through the bars

the man in the next cell
would tell me that he missed his wife.

his children. his bed,
his home cooked meals, but little else.

I told him, I miss nothing.
there is no one.

you're lucky he'd say, it's easier
for you
being in here.

I guess he was right.