OLD BLUE FORD

Inside the iron-barred window she stands motionless,
    Looking out past the all-encompassing length of chainlink fence.

Her child-size hands grip the vertical bars,
    That frame her pale, pretty young face.

Unblinking, unspeaking, she stares at the slab of two-lane highway
    Cutting through the prairie of free world beyond the tall security fence.

If she concentrates hard enough, she just might be able
    To conjure up her mother, behind the wheel of that Old Blue Ford.
       Coming here.

Her mother, who hasn’t visited in five long years of captivity;
    Her mother who refuses to take her calls;
       Her mother, who doesn’t write or send Birthday cards…

            And maybe, never even thinks about her,
              Or worries about her,
                Or cares about her.

From my bunk I observe her painful Saturday morning ritual,
    And find myself also straining to will her mother
        Into that Old Blue Ford.
          Coming here.

Squeezing my eyes shut, mentally I command the bubble officer
    To announce her name plus those welcomed words, “You have a visit.”

Heavy with helplessness,
    Suffocating in this cell stuffed full of silent sorrow,
      I grab my roll of state-issue toilet paper and slip out.
        Away.

Until she gives up and reluctantly leaves the wishing window,

Steps out into the prison yard,

Lights up and deeply inhales the familiar acrid smoke of disappointment.


Patricia Prewitt
May 22, 2005