Uncle
Here is the man who tells you
prison’s like Vietnam:
always that fear of “up the river.”
Here is the man some people wanted
dead and had reasons
standing in his living room
and holding his picture. Here
in the picture is the box he holds
so he is the man inside
the box of the gate door
inside the larger box
of the prison holding
the box he brought here
how many months ago.
And not in some professor’s
embroidery on the picture
but the picture. So the box’s a box.
And here is the ocean
under his condominium
and wedges of lemon
sun in his curtains
and sun-webbed
ocean in his eyes
as he turns from his picture
to make his point
finally clear because
for once the facts
stand still: right here. Though where
his words would be
he for this moment just
shakes his picture.
