Prisoners

This is a poem about the human condition dedicated to my friend Ginnie.

What prisoners are made of us,
Just by experience alone.
We are shaped by demons and ghosts
That make the present moan.

Where are the freedoms?
The liberties that I fought for?
When I was a prisoner of the Service
Fighting in what they call a war?

The system has us on lockdown,
As if one of us has escaped.
I argue that not one of us has
The surface of happiness scraped.

The simple pleasures that I hold
So sacred in my heart
Are the very things that no one hears
And not one wants to start.

So every Sunday, I'll play Scrabble
With my friend in assisted living,
To give us both the hope we need,
Despite this cruel world's misgivings.