Lambs and Lions

I exist in a haze. My head’s a Rolodex cranking through a thousand thoughts for how I’ll survive the next eighteen months, but I expend no effort walking the painted line because everything here is planned out for us—I just need to follow orders, lay low, and do my time. Eighteen fucking months’ worth of time. My sandals drag over polished tile. I stay glued to the faded D.O.C. taunting me between the shoulders of another man's whites while nine of us are escorted to D-Unit. If we’re fresh fish in a glass bowl, I’d hate to meet the sharks. Each of us is a little rough, probably cut from similar lives, but the tension of this place has everyone's pride tucked between our legs. It makes us walk funny. Fear and body odor become the stench that stings my nose like a cheap prison cologne. I don’t know what anyone’s in for and don’t give a fuck ’cause I’m too concerned about myself, but I’d be willing to bet most of us only got dirty to keep our loved ones clean. They're under God's watch now. Regardless, we’re unwashed men, and we’re here.

to be continued...