When I get out of jail...

When I get out of jail,


I drive away very very fast.

And don't look back at the guards in the tower watching me peel out.

I turn my music up LOUD.

And roll down my window and gulp the fresh air.

When I pull into my yard, I walk over to the chicken pen and lock my knees when the multicolored flock swarm me, much like the inmates do, when I enter the cafeteria, so I don't turn and run . And I stand there and watch them, watch me, much like the cafeteria. Only it relaxes me.

I walk into my house and wash my hands repeatedly. I sometimes wash my hands repeatedly before I shower and wash repeatedly.

Then I eat. I crave the food so spicy it will bring tears to my eyes. I want the deserts to sweet they hurt. My office is right next to the bakery and I'm damned if I will eat state paid food designated for the prisoners. The same food the guards will push like brutish pigs to get to while the men are sitting waiting at the long hard tables watching , waiting for clearance, is not what I want to put in my mouth. But most of all, I want that fruit cake. The cake only my mum knew how to make and only at Christmas.

And when I get to sit down and hug my boys, I stare at their innocent beauty, in my bright warm yellow kitchen with it's cobalt blue and teal green curtains, glad to be in a room not void of color, and tell them funny stories about the murders, and rapists, and the raping murderers, and the murdering rapists and that silly cook dude to is in for knocking over a liquor store, but got sent to minimum security, only to walk off and swipe the dietary van to rob the bottle shop three blocks away, and is now back cooking breakfast.

And I'm all ok.