The Lock Up

Across floor tiles prisoners
in adjacent cells rant
“Cops! Pigs!” and other
well-used names, the
crowd of them
dragged from downtown’s
drunken brawl, on dope
hash, fists flying,
tongues slashing.

Later it’s, “Get me a Legal
Aid lawyer, I know my rights.”

Much later to the officer on watch,
“Toilet paper, Sir?” Slamming doors
and rattling bars, he answers,
“Go to sleep you jerk.”

More slurs and a friend warns,
“Watch it Harry, he’ll paste you.”

Voices up and down the corridor like
farts of thunder, my only
tranquilizer---closing ears to their
calls, shutting eyes to sullen stares

and remember your smile back
home, in Nova Scotia.

© Richard L. Provencher