My cell, me, within it, feels like a ship at sea these days. I sit at the stern of the vessel, alone, quiet, and staring… My prison eyes, hour after lonely hour, dream upon the wake. I watch as the wake divides-it makes me think about this prosecuter, Mr. Schwartz, that has been assigned to my current case. He has been there against me before; not in the courtroom, but as a writer for the government. Everyone else from yester-year that the government brought against me is gone. Yet, this brief writer remains.

As I watch the trailing of the wake, I wonder, what kind of a man would write against a man such as I, who has remained behind bars for 24 years; what kind of a man would wish me to stay caged; are they full of hate. Hate that has no taste, only the wish to devour. Then I think, no, this would just be a man doing his “job”

After decades, I wonder, does this man really know me or anyone who has become their own mooring such as I. I wonder if this man prays, and if so, his soul has to whispering to him, “at least step across from this man you are to judge, look into his eyes and see the man he has become after 24 years”. I wonder if Mr. Schwartz has a window, where he watches his wake, the white waters dividing, what does his heart see. I have to wonder.

I am the caged, he is the key. When caged, or chained to an oar, watching the wake, one like I, can only hope the key raises his arm to open a latch that lets in the sun and wind, and not to lash. I hope and pray, just as I wonder.

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