I beat the sun to your town,
watched the surf light grey the beach
before the cardboard kings began
sorting treasures in humped blanket rolls.
The prison’s here. The one with
the sign, not some mental
restriction, or emotional
underbelly in revolt.
Guards, entry cards, bars,
inside, inmates await
family visits, mail call,
court dates and answered prayers.
My cowboy boots click
the corridors, state issued ID
swinging like Jesus on a stick
from my neck.
Volunteer chaplain
fitted for a vest, meant
to deter violence
while preaching Peace.
Everyday is Easter
walking, like Lazarus,
from cell block
to concrete chapel.
Angels hover
as fluorescent lights flicker.
The piano’s out of tune,
even in Spanish.
The brothers sit
while I stand in the gap.
Our Father
lends His Son.
The hum of a hymn,
the comfort of a known page
turning, the ritual of handshakes,
kneeling.
All that is holy
is here, all that is evil, available upon request,
same as everywhere.
Came to serve,
we get our game, our name
from Him. Play and pray
’til the whistle blows.
The ride home, alone
but not, a chance to whisper
through the trees
and live, like roots,
underground.
