Juin Charnell

Writing is my Independence Day

While people are grilling and waiting for fireworks, I’ll be sitting in a prison cell. I won’t get to smell the hot dogs, bar-b-que ribs, potato salad, pork and beans, chicken. I won’t get annoyed when the drunken uncle or aunt who has sipped too much wine or drank one to many beers starts reminiscing about the good old days from twenty years ago. I wish I could be there in my lawn chair watching the kids run through the sprinklers because it’s 90 degrees in the shade. I wish I could snuggle up behind my woman and tell her how much I appreciate the hard work she put in, getting the in-laws to visit, setting a wonderful table, letting me kick back and play a slamming game of bid whist or spades…

…unfortunately.

My spades partner will be sitting across from me holding on to his cigarette bids like they were chips from a casino. My “cocktail” will be surreptitiously sipped out my coffee cup between guards roaming eyes. My  beanie weenies will have to suffice as I imagine them tasting like smoked dogs off the grill, dripping with mustard and ketchup. My snuggle will happen later in my cell, as I can only visualize my dream lover, who is plastered on a cinder block wall, taped to stay in place.

My Independence Day was taken long ago. Well, I did my crime, I am now doing my time.
If you get a moment, come visit me.
Thompson
Inside Out

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