The Cruellest Month

In My Cell

I am in my cell,
a cross-section of which
is most gorgeously marbled.

Locked in my cell,
I blare prog, garage, shoegazing,
disturbing only silence.

And if from my cell
I sing along loudly,
and the notes fall flat,

I'm alone in this cell,
with no red faces. A paradise
of personal space,

I rock in my cell,
with my inner tom-tom pulse
beating eight to the bar.








April 22—freedom, free with purchase, or other irony of the word “free”