Purgatory   Cell by cell, each of the guys on the block has a story like mine, how life was good and then it wasn’t. Some of them won’t talk about it, and some of the others would deceive themselves into thinking I cared. It’s always too cold in here, or too hot. I hate that smell when everybody’s scared, pretending not to be, pretending not to be here at all, this hell that I call purgatory as though I’m being cleansed of what I did and who I was and all that I still am, and getting out depends on nothing I can understand. I pace around the yard. I hate this goddamn place.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont October 2024