On The Job

I'm on the job at the prison infirmary,

It's not much, really insignificant actually.

It pays the bills and keeps food on the table

And a roof over our heads.

We're all locked up together - prisoners and security

And nursing staff alike behind gates and walls and wire.

I might work, really work, for 5-6 hrs. Then I spend the

Remaining hours waiting for something to happen.

Sometimes it's inevitable and expected

Other times it's not and it's so all of a sudden.

Most times, it's hours of pure boredom

Punctuated by minutes of seemingly pure chaos.

I get into my 12 hr routine and hope nothing disturbs it.

People die here and sometimes babies are born here

Although that's really not quite so commonplace.

Mostly they heal and go back to where they

Came or to some other place to die or live

Out the rest of their lives. At least, until they come back my

Way again. I've seen people come and go

Over the years, patients and staff and others.

I roll with the punches and take it one day at a time.

The weeks become months and the months become years,

They blend one into the other as do the faces and the names

And the numbers. Every now and again something or someone

Will stand out of the ordinary. In and out the gate and back again,

One shift after another. One day I'll find the balls

To go through the gate one last time, just like an inmate

Up for parole or release and finally free. Jimmy Woods was right,

Sometimes you'll find yourself in the TDCJ rut.