Solitaire

the air doesn't move here
it settles onto the beds and
onto the arms of sleeping men.

so, i start a letter to my father that says,
"Thursday afternoon. i remember the letter
you sent me from jail,"
and i say that i don't remember
when it was and,
"i don't remember where you were."
and i wondered if it had also been written
on a Thursday.

then,
"when i left home i was tired, i was angry,
i was disheveled, but i was free.
i was finally free."

and,
" the same noise fills this room
that fills school cafeteria...
the noise that floats around in the worst
neighborhoods
and in kitchen dishrooms."

i tell him about the windows,
how they are 3 inches wide.
"skinny, just to let the light in," i say,
"and that's it."

"humanitarian i suppose."
and i say out loud, "white walls, white ceilings,
cement floors and white noise." and i
write that down too.

the air in here does not move and
there is no white noise for the hour in
the mornings when the
gentlemen are showering, making their beds,
eating their "morning meal".

then they go back to sleep, on top of the
beds they've made.
those are the rules, no one under the covers
when the lights are not off.

and i tell my father
"no more of my life will be
used up in places like this, father, no
more time will be wasted.

"everyone has a Bible, little tiny bars of soap,
slipper shoes that are just too big...

"and there's the debate in your head over
whether its cleaner to shower or to
not go near that dirty shower...

"there's the heart rate and the cold feet
and the tap-tap-tapping on
the rail rail rail.

"there are head counts and "lock-it-down!s"
and cambro plates of food.

"there's tea in small brown coffee mugs and
water
when it empties."

i tell my father, "i'm on the second floor,
the Balcony, the loft, with 18 others,
tired of lying down,
tired of sitting up,
twisted in my jumpsuit
and my face unshaven."
"the Mezzanine," i say.

i've retraced the First Crusade with
Tim Severin of National Geographic.
i've read two books and've slept through
the evening.

and i stop my letter,

i don't know how to tell him
that these things remind me so strongly
of growing up, so i turn
my attention to the air that doesn't move
again,
and fill my mind with inclination.

the paintbrush,
the canvas,
i tear my letter in half and say to my
father
out loud that i am tired of watching men
cheat at games of solitaire.

written in 2002.
(all rights reserved.)