Time's Up

The yellow locust

lining the prison driveway,

are ash white

at first light.

 

The dawn

is as slow as the guard

releasing

the day.

 

Turning a page

beats scratching lines

in the wall,

time after short short time.

 

The journey home,

interrupted,

thanks the waitress

for real cutlery.

 

You can read the cup bottom

through the coffee, but it ain't free.

Another proof of

liberty.

 

Walk a mile translates

to hours and hours

behind the wheel,

facing forward.

 

A sentence ends

with a dull dot,

a chapter begins

with a single word