Greenville, Illinois

After the metal detector, there was no pat down.

A guard marked my wrist with ultraviolet ink

that shone in blacklight. Since I had cleared

the background check, my books were my identification.

The inmates sat in bleachers of the big gymnasium

where the sultry air smelled of perspiration and weights.

After I read each poem, they snapped their fingers

to encourage me to keep going. A few licked ice cream cones.

Wearing clean khaki uniforms, they raised their hands politely

to pose rather personal questions, before forming a line,

like ambassadors, to shake my hand. A famous economist

had argued with them about Capitalism, they reported,

which they believed was based on lies, not trust.

If you lie, they said, you become the president.