There are gladiolas,
black-eyed Susan
growing in wooden barrels
behind the chain-link, below the razor-wire.
The Powerhouse
they call it,
the building that houses
the generators, the boilers,
whatever else it takes to keep
these cinder-block cell-houses
warm, cool, or otherwise
habitable.
As I make my way up toward
the building I work in,
I pause to look at these blooms.
I must.
For it is in seeing them
that I may be seeing the
only beauty offered that day.
There is so little here
that is beautiful,
one might say.
The floors are scuffed,
the walls,
the paint, chipped away
or graffitied with pen-caps
or makeshift knives,
not looking for that space between a cell-mate's ribs
just then.
There is rust on the window sills,
on the bedposts bolted together,
bunkbeds for the bruiser or the bruised.
Still,
the gladiolas, those black-eyed Susan's
persistence in palpable,
as is the potential of every single
human being housed inside.
The perspective shifts.
There's beauty in that potential,
presented in the form of actualized,
engaged participation in today's classwork
or
small-group discussion.
'What's this?
A breakthrough?
Sir, is that a teardrop?'
Real,
not tattooed.
Beautiful.
More so than any gladiola
or
black-eyed Susan here
could hope for.
*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020
