IN PRISON

it didn’t feel like criticism

of my writing prompts

he simply said he preferred to freestyle

incarcerated, I understood

the paper was another cage

not for him the page’s way

of herding thoughts’ wayward birds

in some lives there are already too many rules

it was as though his words lost height

on that ride from mind to pen to sheet

surrendered their freedom

he sat up a little in his chair

closed his eyes, summoned thunder

began to spit out bars

and when he’d spat out bars

he spat out prison walls, the prison guards

every knockdown, every lockdown

all his lifeblood ran in that rhythm

and when finally he came up for breath

he’d soared right out that prison, a free man

copyright Ash Dickinson