Six months into your sentence,

and still you hang on.

Grapes are long gone.

Lazy summer days are just a

snapshot in a drawer.

Long cold nights

stretch interminably,

yet here you are,

refusing to let go.

What belies your brittle,

what glues seam to stem?

Do you have

Counsel

with power to pardon?

Do you have

Representation

to plead your case?

Do you have

eyes

to see past judgement,

secret stored wine to

sing yourself brave?