remembering

telltale digits next to

fogged names in my record book,

narrow seams crossing

blackened lines like

guarded cells in a maximum security precinct

where months were spent

in utter, utter revolt,

in secrecy.

not a toe out of the line,

not a whisper in the warden's way.

slipping out, sensationalizing freedom,

i clamber the dirty way out.

a thousand words, 180 days;

what doesn't amount to goodbye

in the long run

mocks reality in the first place.