In their tiny cells
with the paper-thin walls
they ask their gods for favors
supplicant and pale, shivering in the heat,
painting pictures of the dollar signs
that fill their heroes’ heads
shackled to their plastic smiles
the ass chases the carrot.
In their tiny cells
with the paper-thin walls,
they write
poking holes in the barriers
with sharpened sticks and crayons
taping over them
praying to get out
They bite their tongues
and swallow them
they are washed in the blood of the christ.
In their tiny cells
with the paper-thin walls
they strip their clothes and wait
palms up face down,
tied up
in the corner
with candy floss and threads of spiderwebs
bound by the belief
that they cannot save themselves.