Original submission by author

He’s sitting in a chair in his room drenched in sweat,
With no door to his room so his neighbors can sense the threat.
The corona is attacking him from the inside out, he can’t even pick up the phone and call collect to send out an S.O.S. as the guy next door listens to his heaves
Waiting to see if he takes his last breath.
While others pray they won’t be next.

Only concrete walls and bad light between them,
Thinking about his life and his Loved Ones and how he won’t go out without fighting.
As he waits, and waits, and waits, for healthcare or death.
No need to worry about the oppression of men and being overpowered by debt,
Because this might be his last night left.

Help finally comes in the unit with hazmat suits on and tells Johnson to cuff up,
But all this could’ve been prevented with the proper protocol from the hierarchy,
But they would rather flip the narrative and say we rebels of anarchy.
It’s all a facade,
America has never adopted the concept of rehabilitation in prison.
They’ll rather get rich and rob.

Instead of safely quarantining a guy,
You place him on a floor with 50 people who’s not sick,
If that’s not the definition of an oxymoron then I’m running for president.
Now you see why we don’t trust the DOJ and its affiliates.
There’s no social distancing,
We’re herded in like cattle to get a hot meal to eat,
While the fat lazy guard nods off and goes back to sleep.

What’s the purpose of a mask if the police won’t wear it,
Why give us cleaning supplies if we can’t share it.
My life is on the line every day
As I face Systemic Racism hoping the COVID doesn’t take my breath away.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

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Michael Thomas

Michael Thomas is a writer incarcerated in Michigan.