I sit in the day room of
cell block one in the county jail at
4: 30 am.  It's quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard-boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice, and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I'll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I'm released, I'll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I'll eat every three or four days.
It's January with record-setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be an ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I'll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is if she didn't throw them away;
she's somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends who stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I'm going to miss jail.

The heart
Is not an *****
As many think

The heart is a muscle

Does the fact that mine was crushed far too often
Make it weak
Or make it strong?

The same corner bends beneath us.

The ground gives, then takes,

like it knows we will fall again.

We call it learning,

but the sky calls it forgetting.

I was trapped, but
as noisy-quick triggers burn
adult options wait, smoke-obscured

Now I have agency

I was naïve, but
as searing-shame echoes blush
tenure-chastened growth sprouts verdant

Now I have wisdom

I was wounded, but
as oily black trauma smears
injure-blemished skin heals tougher

Now I have scars

I was confused, but
as guileless young stories waste
lesson-laden tales are woven

Now I have clarity

I was in danger, but
as painful new learnings flow
hard-won armour fends when needed

Now I have shielding

I can decide,
and I know
I am strong
in clear-eyed
protection

I am grown