This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “the 23 enigma” cc&d (v263) (the June 2016 issue, v263, the 23 year anniversary issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Clouds over the Moon the cc&d Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2015 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

How Did I Ever Wind Up Here

Charles Hayes

    Grey bars and concrete stacked afar, vanishing points of slowly disappearing souls I can feel. Slamming steel at my back brings my stomach high, and takes a bite of my shirt to welcome me. No canteen for a month the shirt will cost, a bill that must be paid.
    A shadowed hole along the line, my all and all for thirty months, comes closer quick. Hearing the snarl of steel I look to find, the grey bars closed, my world to be. Along the catwalk my keepers flee, the echo of their laughter left for me. Unseen voices sound without, mixed with laughter of their own, telling me to the canteen I need not go, new cherries can bargain for their needs. Hearing this I sink lower still, just another welcome dripping down. Nerves already raw, without a stitch from me, the cushion for my frame begins a tic.

    To wind up here is hard to realize, though the judge’s words were clear. Learn the lessons of this place, a better man to be. His power lit, gavel down and punitive pleasure well be robed, tough on crime he is, everybody knows. Rising from the bench, through a door he goes, his duty done, a career ahead, and tables laid just so.
    To the local clinks I have been, pinched from the bar I leaned upon, by local screws, their quota filled. Intoxication my crime to charge, and obstruction for bringing them off their cot, but how did I ever wind up here.
    Once on a leave before the Nam, I thought it would be sweet. But drunk I did become, and mid-night chin-ups on the school swings, had the screws called forth. My buddy they let go, and told to stay away from me. A mother’s son they took to jail, for her in the morn to retrieve, a home town good-bye before I took their war. Class reunions wonder still, why I never come despite the pleas, and say my empathy is shot. But how did I ever wind up here.

    Long haired and a beard to stretch, he begged for half my weed and waved a ten. I gave it over owed to be, maybe a brother I would find. But my shirt pocket for the ten, he did stick it anyway. Later I came to see that weed that was pinched from me, on the table across the way, where the smiles of the judge often homed. And the brother I wanted to be, neatly uniformed and spanking clean was he. His teeth, like a paste buy me ad, to the judge he often flashed.

    That is how I got here. Nary a scarf across her eye, the lady boldly viewed her scales, and leaned her way of ought, instead of balance let it be. The gavel down, the price to pay, all the pockets picked, it has been a day. Get by I will or not for threadbare my pockets are, but when you come to better me a hair you will not find. Surprised you can not be, it happens a lot.

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