Fred Aiken Writing

the doors lock, slammed into place,
silence filling the space,
whispered words whistle through,
as a conversation takes place
inside the prisoner’s head, wondering dread,
closing in, every moment examined with careful precision
that led to this moment
of imprisonment,
because there’s time to think it through,
though the smell of the jail cells
distract him to no end,
like burning rubber mixed with rancid lemon juice
used to clean up cow manure
tracked through the halls of the jailhouse,

the prisoner wonders if he’ll start singing the blues,
but realizes he doesn’t know much about music,
so he’ll forego the impulse