Barely a soul uses the prison library.
It is pokey and ill-lit, but I have found
my space to think. The degree in art
history takes me away from petty
prison politics, so I can focus
on the bigger things. The loathing
and bullying of the other inmates
has lost impetus, with me cocooned
behind a wall of books. The warden,
impressed by my academic study,
has promised additional funding
for the principal scholarly texts.
The silence of my children disturbs
me. After our breakthrough, nothing.
I shall write to my eldest son.
The warden has granted me some
stationery and pens.