familiar movements

Tuesday morning, the metal door
behind me slams shut and i climb
upstairs to the first floor,
thermos in hand as i mime
motions i’d done dawns before.

The feeding tube alarms chime
and the call lights coruscate
to signal the end of mealtime,
and our blind, schizophrenic inmate
screams that it’s a crime

to have to wait for a
second cup of coffee; it’s the law!
His face contorts to pique abated
when the nurse hurries down the hall
to hand him - i haven’t the heart to tell him -
decaf.