Lucky & Pozzo

Another poet
made me think
of cross-roads
and panopticans.
Of the consistent reek of silenced testosterone.

Crocodiles of prisoners at junctions,
and no cheerful turbulence
in Pentonville.
Cracked paintwork on the bars,
the hush was dazzling.
A drizzled grizzled ebbing.
Thoughts slowly oozing down bars.
Yawned out.
Memories rattling that lone boot on the road.
In silence.
You see,
the mute has no notion of time either,
the things of time were hidden from Lucky too.

D saved his batteries
in order to echo John Peel
by night
sending his music round the
prison,
down the pipes
dousing sleeping men.

E fell in love with a co-prisoner with my name,
later,
she would chase me through
the house shouting declarations of love for 'Sarah' at me.
Finally enacting those longed for impossible moments.
Of whispered
passion.
Of the spoken word.

M point blank refused to discuss his term inside.
The biggest bouncer I had ever known
a human slab of gentle menace,
who would never ever
hurt,
or talk about,
his bird.