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Date Posted:03:36:01 09/14/02 Sat Author Host/IP: netcache-2002.public.lawson.webtv.net/209.240.198.61
I work in a prison in North Carolina on third shift. This poem just sort of, kinda came to me.
The words flowed and I wasn't sure what I wrote.
So be painfully honest.
The man,
In his third shift haze
Talks on the phone.
He talks to combat the stillness.
As the convicts slumber
In a steady state
He talks.
To gossip.
To inform.
To be informed.
This still life
This painting of the
Sanitized "Dante's Inferno"
Beats with its own heart.
Its rhythm
Its movement
Slithers and movs
Like a tired snail.
The joint.
The rock.
The big house
Has its own heart.
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