The Jailhouse

I hasten up the walkway, a little businessman
hands shoved deep in warm pockets
overcoat buttoned to the scratchy collar,
with spit shine loafers.
My ears stinging red and ready to snap.

I pass the run down jailhouse
broken red brick, hunched low rows, a Bates Motel
with spiraling razor wire, worn as a crown of thorns.

Inside the fence, Mexicans and Negroes
shift foot to foot, trying to keep warm.
Downcast in orange jumpsuits, steamy mouthed,
the cuffs glint in winter morning light.

A few years later, a bond referendum
builds six looming stories, the shadows
make that same city walk colder still.
The cost doubles by completion,
but the celebration is gala,
so obscene.
Prohibition themed,
serving champagne and red meat.
Ah, what a lark!
A couple can rent a cell for the night,
all nice and conjugal.

The newspaper does a full-page spread
lamely bannered “Jailhouse Rocks!”
sequined flappers and sharkskins, rented costumes,
glinting white teeth for the camera.

Soon the Mexicans and Negroes transfer in,
but things are of a modern design,
so I never see anything so disturbing
as a man in chains again.