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My Yard

Tom Davison

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
My Yard isn’t anything like your yard.
My Yard has no trees or flowers.
Only an occasional greenish-brown stain of trampled grass.
The early morning sun exposes the points of the barbwire that surround my Yard.
It glitters
Yet somehow looks beautiful.
Which terrifies me.
My Yard is two football fields squared.
I share it this morning with 800 other men.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Where I have acquired a unique – and special gift.
The ability to perceive all the men in my Yard.
From 360 degrees.
I can sense who is following me without turning my head.
Approaching from my left is the Con Man.
His pockets bulging.
Full of broken promises and unfulfillable schemes.
His eyes darting from face-to-face.
Never still.
Just like his mouth.
He makes me feel drained and weary.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Approaching from my right is the Strong Man.
The one who never ceases lifting things.

He is forever pushing, pulling, and twisting his muscles.
Struggling to exercise away his demons.
But no matter how huge his muscles become -
It doesn’t alter the fact –
He is still inside.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
Approaching too fast from behind me is the Baby Man.
He hasn’t discovered the rhythm of my Yard yet.
He was delivered here direct from Juvey.
He strains to be a tough guy.
But his eyes give him away.
I can smell the fear on him.
He wears it like a strong cologne.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
There is a swelling crowd.
Striding on the blacktop and the concrete pathways
Alongside and all around me.
Like a stream of angry ants in blue denim.
They are all present now.
I can sense them all.
With my special gift.
The Always Angry Man.
The Fighting Man.
The Stoned Man.
The I Am Innocent Man.
The Religious Man – and all the others.

Taking a walk in my Yard this morning.
I utilize my special ability.
I can feel him now.
He is coming slowly.
Straight at me.
The one they call the Old Man.

Also known as the Lifer Man.
Shuffling his feet.
Rarely gazing upward.
Instead - staring downward at the top of his scruffy prison shoes.
Mumbling to himself continuously
About the poor decisions that brought him here.

He is so near to me now.
Coming closer and closer.
With each step I take.

He matches my pace.
Step for step.
He should break away.
He is too close.
Now he is just inches from my face.
I could reach out and touch him.
No wait – it is only my reflection in the glass.

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