Not daily two-hour bus rides from Jersey
to Manhattan and back—stinched seats rug-thin
molded to shockless floors—but those queasy
flashes through frost-grit windows: high wire fence
topped by barbed wire piled like unraveling
tumbleweed, capped again by shaved razor
wire curled like warped sabers. No traveling
at will from there, dapper in blue blazers
and shiny cordovans, bitching in our
minds how we hate our jobs more than they hate
us. That Newark prison made me cower
in split-second gratitude, clean my plate
at Shoreline Township Grill, cherish those nights she
sat with me, cupid-bow lips sipping coffee.
Roger Armbrust
September 13, 2009
