That orange man.
His headlight, bright, behind me.
His bad ass.
I yield
to his megalomaniacal pathway.

He has his five-digit number,
big and black on his massive orange.
His tattoos are funny,
stretched by muscle-building,
but prison isn’t funny.

He’d pick me up, one hand,
squashing my midsection,
and he’d laugh as the white worms
squirt out my nose and ears.

But orange man couldn’t take my prison.
Sure, he survived Leavenworth,
and now he rattles civilians,

but my prison would flatten him,
him and motorcycle, no thicker
than a Costco catalogue,
and best for us, before he’s flat,
in my prison, we long
for someone to kill us.