Poetry By
James Hutchings
Published on: 1/29/2014
Saranac Prison
Well, morning has broken. The men have awoken and terrible slow is the journey as I shuffle in line for a meal fit for swine and I curse at that Goddamn attorney. Well there ain't any cheer to be found in this year of our Lord Eighteen Seventy Eight. When you're done with your slops then the day sorta stops and you sit in your cell and you wait. There's a worn-out old drunk has my cell's upper bunk and nine tenths of the time I can stand him. Now he wants me to know if the law let him go he'd be back to the wife he abandoned. "Oh, I'd no longer shirk from my share of the work. I'd be faithful and never would stray." Why you lying old toad, you'd lie drunk in the road and be back behind bars in a day. Well a preacher was sent and he bade us repent and he had a whole passel of reasons but I sit in my cell and I hanker for Hell for I'm getting damn tired of freezing. It appears that in Maine they're real fond of the rain and I wish I could get up and run where it's hot and it's dry and there's blue in the sky and the world could forget what I done. I can wish as I may but I'm here anyway with the rain and the cold and the snow so I sit on my ass as the day doesn't pass and there's eight hundred more left to go. And at last darkness falls and it hides the high walls but the drunkards and cowards and me hear a hammering hail on the roof of the jail to remind us we ain't going free.
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