FEW OPTIONS by Don Sutherland December 26, 1998 Isolation Cell #11 My horizon stops at a grey steel door, Rise from bed to the hard cement floor. A fluorescent sun shines day and night. Look out window toward Jupiter and Mars, Vision obscured by large flat bars. No phone, no visitors, no canteen. Limited conversation: Ghetto whites, Blacks, Latinos, Natives off the reservation. Read most of the sparse librarys books, Try to change the T.V. station; get harsh looks! Cellmates thoughts are only of revenge and rage, Spends most days sleeping in our dark cage. Fresh polar air blows in, the window of the bleak, stark gym. I withdraw into myself, and speak only to HIM!
Posted on: Thu, 18 Sep 2014 23:22:39 +0000