GONE TO JAIL

  

There’s no alcohol

in the Detention Center.

Just sweat, bars and rage.

 

And no music blares

from your house into my yard,

pounding my windows.

 

Someone took your dog.

She had a good home with you,

though she got lonely.

 

No one cuts your grass

or plants corn in your garden.

Your bills are unpaid.

 

The bedroom window

of the house right behind mine

gapes with a bullet hole.

 

The neighborhood’s Fear

is not unlike your Anger.

Your absence remains.