After All Those Years
by Ajamu C. B. Haki
(1996, Sing Sing Correctional Facility, Ossining, New York)

After being punished
for 10. 15, 25, or more years,
do you think that you’ll want to leave?
Can you imagine anything more terrifying
than walking through those gates
without looking back at that great square wall
that kept you in all those years?
Punishing you and comforting you!
Punishing you and comforting you!
Do you think that you will at least miss it?
That somehow, inside, you loved being here
under the tooth mother’s wings?
You ain’t got to worry about a damn thing!
You ain’t got to worry about a damn thing!
You’re Amerikkka’s greatest son,
the tooth mother’s greatest capture.
She has taught you how to bend your knees,
stand up curved back and mop her welcoming floors,
given you paint to embellish her halls of terror —
more terrifying!

And you’ve been smiling all those years at her morbid green,
her institutional colors, her slavery that fits you.
So do you think after all those years of being trained
that you can just un-train yourself and leave?
That you can enjoy the wonderful colors you’ve only enjoyed
as a crayoning child?
After all those years behind these gray walls —
the monotony!
The Sunday pancakes, refried french toast, and greasy chicken,
the Mondays you wish they had something edible,
the Tuesday Yakasorbi murder burgers,
the Wednesday killer liver,
the Thursday everything from the last four days mixed
together,
the Friday lumpy oatmeal and fluorescent Kool-Aid,
the Saturday cold cuts you go down to the mess hall just to
look at.
The cycle begins again on Sunday;
and you’ve gone to the mess hall for every meal,
didn’t miss a single meal in all those years.
Now why do you think that you can get use to real food?
Home cooking, a gourmet restaurant,
after you’ve only had seven minutes to eat
and an ulcer bigger than your heart.
After all those years you still think that you can just leave?
Well, maybe, but remember — even though you leave the
prison
the prison will never leave you.