Prose About Cons

Orange clad figures
standing beneath a yellow sun.
The days of stripes,
in the past,
gone,
like their freedom.
The prison of walls and wire,
pales in comparison
to the confines in their minds.
Escape,
no longer means fleeing
across man made boundaries.
Simple events,
lighten loads of mental burdens.
There is no race,
or clan,
or gang,
that segregates them this night.
For it is lederhosen, and polkas!
German Fest and sauerkraut night
has returned to the penitentiary.
(I would would like to take a moment and apologize for this poem. I really need and editor. In writing and in life.)
polka

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