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.”