“It was very like living permanently in a large railway station” ~ C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy
We cannot volunteer in prison now.
The grids and grills that shut the prisoners in,
now serve to shut most everyone else out,
and bars now bar us from teaching each other.
Ours is a transient camp, barracks and wire.
Grey buses run, usually in the night.
Men are shipped out, and others then arrive,
and we never really get to know anyone.
For now, not at all.
But in the evening meetings, once a week,
connections are made, however tentative;
like casual conversations while waiting for a train.
We are all being shipped somewhere, you know.
Tonight.
Prisoners half-asleep on the hard bus seats.
May our inadequate prayers follow them.