Hard Time

Brown hands clutching
gray, wrought-iron bars.
Escape almost within reach.
There’s only one rule:

Stay in the yard
Or get clobbered.
Gabito left the yard once.
He couldn’t walk right
When they were done.

So I stare through these bars
At my ball, sitting in the gutter
Such a perfect, bright red
With its big, white star.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in Poetry