Notes from Exile: Longing
Log/Verse: daily reflections from prison, written every morning at my bunk. Part poem, part log book.
There were brief moments during camp life when the walls seemed to fall away for a minute or two. After meals, working the kitchen detail, I’d sometimes step outside behind the chow hall and watch the world continue without me. This was written from one of those moments.
LONGING
After meals I’d hang out in
the kitchen,
staring out at the picnic area
for visitors.
Tall pines and an old golf
course surround
it.
Lots of dead branches in
the center of the
pines.
Crooked, jagged branches like
scarred skeleton
bones.
It’s always taken me time
to see what’s right
in front of
me.
Standing between the kitchen
and the outdoor
dining,
a refreshing breeze,
the air so much lighter
than Florida
here.
Mesmerized like always at
the passing cars, trucks,
and vans.
All going somewhere, anywhere,
doesn’t matter where.
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