Prison Camp

they have been there so long it seems like home,
cold bread and rotten peaches, cracked sidewalks and peeling paint,
they trudge to work each day, returning to gun fire and police dogs,
finding their beds hard under their hips, they toss and turn all night
to the sounds of the other prisoner's snoring and shifting side to side.
there is no wondering if there is another life, the old one so long gone
of moonlight and dancing, holding hands, drinking wine,
the sounds of only two glasses clinking
into the night.