Notes on an Empty Sky
—for James Fuson (20 Years Reflections of an Empty Sky, Soft Sculpture Press, 2014)
from a prison cell window
seven inches of rectangular
blue
sometimes gray
or black, but no stars
the spotlights too glaring
once a month the setting
moon before dawn
he stares
pencil moves—tiny scratching
of the mouse’s scurrying
feet in the dead corridor
mixed with snoring
and rustling
occasionally a scream
immediately hushed
he writes haiku
the same
everyday
he writes haiku
again
another view of silence
boredom
inner voice dictating
he records the seasons
his yearly calendar
of leaves falling
somewhere else
new sun, hot days
not time
no clocks or bells
just alarms
there are no hours here
but the guards, food
cart, passing storms
rain beating him
on the chest
like memories of
infrequent visits
his mother gray
and stooped now
he doesn’t remember
what she looked like
before
there is too much time
here
he doesn’t wait—
for what?
a candy bar, warmth
new book
an hour to walk outside
the library
the gym
watching warily
careful of his movements
silent yet alert
more observations
on the typewriter
its old keys depressed
carefully
pages
fill
with more
haiku
now printed on cheap
paper, stapled, published