The rain pours down from the hills
That retreats behind a thick fog,
Pounds the squat rooftops of the prison
With the fury of a million tiny fingers.
A tiny patch of land ducks behind
The machine shop. This is the cemetery
Reserved for paupers.
Smokey is here. Smiley. Charley. Dirty Dirt and Lips.
Old guys who rarely receive visits.
Their names and numbers etched
Into the crude wooden crosses marking
Their spots have faded from
Years of neglect. The shrubbery forms
Small villages around them
And thick vines crawl up the sides of
Cracked wood like spiders.
The wild flowers grow tall. And unruly
With the banging of the metal and the
Booming thunder--
You wonder how the dead can get
Any sleep.