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Laying in my jail cell
with nothing
but my slippers
on the ground,
I see a shadow
creep under the bunk
as a bullet of moon light
breaks through a chip
in the window paint
And I can see
(some)
of the full moon rising
over the razor wire
as a guard fingers
the sports page
and I am laying here
with a grin full of sleeping pills,
my belly limp with saltpeter
The western novel
stashed under my pillow
is riding towards Mexico
without me
and I notice the moon
has stretched over my slippers
and onto the bottom bunk
where a man is snoring
towards freedom
and when he opens his mouth
the dreams of the compound
fill his cavities.
And I am laying here
slowly turning 28,
staring off
as a guard shuffles through the dark
counting our bodies and our breath.
So I pretend to be dead
as the finger of moon
crawls up my ankle
and onto my chest,
nearing my throat
as a grown man chortles
in a black/black corner
and I am laying here
thinking of contraband:
a pair of earplugs
a pizza
a cigarette
a bottle
a huge tuba
to blow the windows from the room
and let moon in this place
© 2005, Travis Catsull
Travis Catsull writes poems, plays in a country band and tags truck stop bathrooms with the nickname, “Bobcat.” Books of his poetry have been released by Tsunami Inc. and Effing Press. His latest album of experimental country music will be released by Business Deal Entertainment in spring 2005. He is the editor of Haggard and Halloo Publications.
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