Notes from Exile: The Schedule
Log/Verse: daily reflections from prison, written every morning at my bunk. Part poem, part log book.
In keeping with this week's theme of daily life in prison, the following log/verse was written during my imprisonment, recording the strange rhythms of incarceration.
Mornings arrive before
you’re awake.
Light or not light,
it’s still called
morning.
There is no afternoon:
lunch at Ten or
Eleven.
No evening either:
dinner at Three or
Four.
Grinding menial tasks in
between.
A long interlude follows,
and the usual distractions
fill the torturous hours:
TV and cards, books and
newspapers,
and the most favored,
exercise,
till the turning off the
lights,
and the darkness
we embrace.
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