We knock around growing wrinkled, watch each other die scrawn in jail, colder than dirt stuck in this greedy life sentence, had babies–remember they were round plum children frolicking pliant in our small town, remember we hailed each other from penitence jail, planted stones in dirt, fled each morning through pours of snow & hail while alley cats slunk beside us, nobody escaped.
We don’t miss those yokels jeering through flapjack bars yelling how do you like your jail, us & the babies huddled in our white picket fenced jail or stick on a mountaintop or bury ourself in a penitent’s small town pittance jail or circle the cavalry in the droughty desert amid the crows or float on the parched sand of a small town concrete jail.
Fuck those jeering neighbors throwing wads and spit and nonsense, sometimes we worry about our babies who escaped the old skinny flinching jail. This is a tragedy. Nobody knows less than us how to get out of a small town jail.