Miss Demeanor
I sit in this small, wretched cell with alternating thoughts of
Coaxing my hairpin into a successful coupling with the lock
and just how much I am longing for a nap. Weighing the
merits of each on imaginary scales, I allow my mind to drift
away on the quickly evaporating coattails of that last toke
I took while sitting only half-dressed in the middle of the park
fountain. A lone bee seems to find momentary distraction in the
remnants of over-cooked fish that clings apathetically to the
tray I pushed aside hours ago. Is he buzzing? Or is that simply
Mary Jane humming a lullaby between the relentless pulsing
of my brain? Look at the shadow creatures commencing their
dance with the sporadic rays of light, sneaking like ninjas ever
closer from the tiny window facing south. My latest bout of
reverie is halted abruptly by what I am certain is the voice
of my estranged father. His slurred, yet unmistakable request
to the guard for a little “hit” sobers me instantly with the
assurance that, indeed, the apple falls not so far from the tree.
Tina Jordan 2017
photo public domain via pixabay
