I’m a poet locked in a time-clock jail, just yearning to be free
A jailbird stuck with no money for bail, scheming of ways I could flee
Day after day in a dead-end gig, and the years are passing me by
Will I ever say good-bye to this brig, or am I just too weary to try?
Doing my time in a uniform stripe, we all look alike, you would know
I listen to all the prisoners gripe or spin their sad tales of woe
“They’re guilty!” those who look on will say, and often they’re right on the mark
We all have done deeds for which we must pay, locked up in a room that is dark
A small window above I see in my cell, and the sun will sometimes shine through
Its comfort and warmth I know oh so well, though the moments are fleeting and few
The poet wakes up- his cell mates all stir… parole is a possible thing!
In those moments of hope the mind is a blur, with a future that freedom could bring
All in a line we march on in time, to punch our own time-clock in jail
With final resign, we know we won’t climb, to the heights or the oceans will sail
Cons all around me will die behind bars, their dreams all un-realized
With no more chance to reach for the stars, their fate sadly is finalized
I as a poet, write from my cell, some classics they get snuck outside
I know this fact, and yes, oh-so-well… that some won’t be read till I’ve died!
My tune is well known, the inmate’s lament, it is sung time and time and again
The past is all past, as though set in cement, the future “oh what might have been”
So thank you for reading this writing of mine,
on your 10 minute break or at lunch
And now I must close with this last little line…
I do have a time-clock to punch!
—David Kettler
