I see guys in orange jumpsuits
nearly every day
hopping around
on tight chains
hands stuck to waists
hunched over,
controlled.

The one yesterday
faced as much as 45 years,
though such claims
often float above the real world
of what actually happens
in these grimy hallways and ornate rooms.

He sold cocaine
and picked up the charges
when his friend
turned out to be a snitch
with a wire
and task force dudes
hiding in bushes.

Within minutes
of the bust
there were these federales
wanting bad to talk
and work out a deal
against someone else
supposedly farther on down the line.

My guy
knew what was up,
didn't have to think much
about how to proceed,

signed all the agreements,
got through the plea,
walked out of the jail
an hour later.

He has to testify
and cooperate
and join the ranks
of the folks who cave,
because otherwise
he'll die in prison.

Might happen anyway,
what with the probation,
and rehab,
and the shitty apartment
as the only other option.

If he's lucky
he'll get a PO
who hasn't clouded over
with the cynicism
that often comes
from grappling with people's pain
for so long
that it's just too damn hard
to open the connection
between heart and mind
yet one more time.

But even then,
what do you do
when you're still in your twenties
having already been to prison once,
in some damn small whiteboy town,
where even the real locals
moved away ten years ago,
and there ain't nothing left
but titty bars, bikers, and crack whores?

Makes prison
not look so bad,
especially when
instead of being twenties,
you're fifties
with bad knees and Hep C
or worse.

You ought to come with me sometime
when I walk these guys to the elevator,
and the ride back to jail,
for their clothes and dead cellphones.

You'll see smiles
because they get what they think
is their freedom back,

and you probably ought to smile back,

even though
both them and you
each know
this is all
just a really bad joke.