Bird comes. Bird goes. Comes again.

Little sparrow. Sits on the sill between the bars and cocks his head, watching me. I feed him crumbs – keeps him coming.

Hamlet, was it? Talked about the special providence in the fall of a sparrow. My bird's like that.

You see, little brother, long as he keeps coming to my cell, I can keep on in here. So I tell myself, a little mental trick.

You might be surprised how a man can get used to cold porridge, chicken surprise that's all gravy, even the violence.

It's the lack of an horizon and open sky I can't stand. This enormous prison building traps me, makes me seasick.

To get out? Authorities want remorse. Most of all, they want me to say where the money went, the whole $10 million in cash.

You'll remember my broken fingers before I went in. Snapped by two patched members of the gang.

Didn't tell you what else, brother. Didn't want you scared. Said they'd kill you if I ever talked. Gang's idea of insurance.

So here I am in limbo. Not coming nor going. Watching over my bird and hoping he doesn't fall.

 by Wayne Erb

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