Writings From The Inside

All Sales Are Final

My attitude
about my situation,
it- strikes some as weird.
After all, I’m serving life
and have done so now
going on fifteen years.
“Don’t you ever want to get out?”
they, ask. “What about all
you are missing; all life’s
nicities–surely there is
something in the free world
you miss–a decent meal; a
relationship; the choices not
found in prison?” And I can
only smile my self-conscious grin,
and wonder if my eyes look opaque.
Sometimes I try to explain my
thinking; that this is my, life,
the one I bought, and am paying for.
But it doesn’t register, so instead
I say, all sales are final,and
leave it- at that.

–Patrick Nolan

Were I A Wolf

(For Bobbie Yow)

Patrick Nolan

Were I a wolf,
solitary tracker
of the moon,
my padded paws
would pummel
with urgent
rhythmic rise
lament invades
my heart, against
the night’s moist
mossy carpet, till
I broke free from
the forest’s dark
foreboding depths
to the timber line, and
With one ferocious
mournful note let
rip this anguish from
outstretched throat.
If only I were a wolf,
and not this pathetic
creature called man,
whose broken, gnarled
teeth snap closed to grief,
too choked by terror
of these deep chested,
guttural emotions that
will devour me whole
if I suddenly let go,

If only I were a wolf.