Her perfumed soap. Brown bangs swing below oversized gold aviator sunglasses. The morning breeze slips a strand of her hair into the corner of lips that taste like mint under the spigot. Lashes that curl. Hips he needs to caress.
“That’s it for the day, gather the tools and meet me in the tool room.”
He yanks his thoughts from clouds and looks at the man who just spoke, the man who is all badge and no face. The man who says, “Housing Unit 9 just called ICS on a guy with a DNR order.”
He grabs the rake and pockets the string. Concrete and steel are marshmallows compared to mental anguish.
He looks down at his Arizona prison orange. Its 3 stenciled letters mock his past: ADC, Another Dumb Criminal. He used to drown freedom thoughts in a heaping sporkful of black tar heroin, but he’s now learning to leave them on the page. Not just as mental puke. They are treasure maps to chart preferred back roads. He accepts the axel-breaker ruts with the grace he’s learned from creative writing 420.
It’s his weekly medicine, magic with strings he knows how to play