This is the last poem I'll read.
CCDC South Tower, sixth floor.
The fourth time you get locked up, nothing comes by surprise.
Not the cop who rips out your piercings or the cold smell
of piss in the holding cell.
You already know how the phones work and who to call.
You know to talk fast.
You've seen sunshine seep through the receiver
and leave a man drenched in his own grief.
The fourth time you get locked up,
you might try to pretend it's normal, like a long DMV trip.
You might say things like, this happens to everyone, you know?
Who's Black or Brown.
You don't waste time watching the door or pacing for warmth.
You pull your arms inside your shirt and sit.
You know you're going to have to sleep.
You know they're going to keep you at least a week.
The fourth time, you know the slow, gray beat of captivity.
You done learn so well, the rhythm is drumming
through you like a pulse, so low, you don't
feel it keeping you alive.
You're not picky about what food because you
know what choice you have.
Take what you can.
Trade strawberry cakes like rose gold bricks
and choose coffee, fruit, a pill to help you forget.
The fourth time they take you, you
know the dry expanse of consciousness
and the oasis of dreams.
You know no one knows why they're here
or when they will be called.
You know don't come back is a jinx and never just
an empty promise.
You know silence is a word you can keep.
Best to roll it up and quietly toss your blues.
The fourth time they get you, you
know well how society cages good and sick people
and calls it just.
How cages feel just like society to the people who fill them.
You know we all find a way to live in our prisons.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]