By Harry Olsen

It was right before count—everyone locked-down but me.
I stood on the tier, two gray wool blankets, two sheets,
towel, pillowcase in hand, a brown paper bag held state issue
soap, single-blade razor, comb, toothbrush, two nameless,
stampless, return-addressed envelopes.
 
The property was choice, first class realty, one cell
from the end, top tier; a sunrise view of the Big Yard.
I watched the three gun towers watching me.
Beyond the Wall sun-baked grass, moss, and weeds
flourished in the field, stretched to the cement pillars
that sustained the cars and trucks as they flashed along the overpass,
north and south down Interstate-5.  Tarmac and cars
weren’t the only numbered objects; my state name coursed—
38583—an androgynous cabalistic enigma.
 
The guy in the cell glared over the new Penthouse, November ’89.
He stared hard past sky-blue irises.  Short, bald,
tattooed, blond-bearded—a booger-eater for sure.  He stood
as the guard popped open the door, studied my every move.  
“Name’s Maggot,” he enlightened me, and demanded
a co-signature: who I’d know to say I wasn’t a rat
or rapo?  Everything’s hard, straight, black and white:
no patience, vacillation.  I took a deep breath,
released it slowly, relaxed.  In some ways,
it felt good to be home.