This poem was originally published on 4 January 2017.

Chartering hope,
With chalk and checks.
Body stuck still
– in a cell,
Under a duvet,
Of dust specks.

Won over dark,
With a woop-a-woo.
Losing face
– to thoughts,
So hairy,
They break through.

Playing jazz,
With matchstick and heartbeat.
Soul trembling
– for the spirit,
Of fresh air,
He can’t reach.

Calling the warder,
With cry and query,
He says:
“Fella’ –
I am a bar man too!
Tell me, d’you drink,
As I do?”

Spits the warder,
With ringing laughter,
A tone, the Free
– appear to share,
“You’re just a poor old fool;
I’ll drink to your despair.”