He’s chilling, sitting under his tree
Writing me a letter.
Hallway fans just blow
Hot air round the cellblock;
Outside’s the only place to be.
JC needs an orthopedic boot,
Something to ease his injured foot,
So he’s asking my help again
In careful big block printing,
Words misspelled here and there,
But mostly straight and clear.
“Don’t mess with the assistants;
Talk right to the Man,” he says;
“That’s the only way to go.”
I’ve corresponded with JC
More than half a year
And nothing new has happened.
His relatives won’t speak to him;
His doctor won’t believe him;
His wife withholds his son.
But he keeps up his hope,
He keeps on chilling,
Keeps on writing me.
Three years to his next hearing
He gives me his blessing
And says “Talk right to the Man.”
©2005 John I. Blair