Wet Shoes
by Gary Lark

The river swells,
mud and debris
wash down
from scoured hills,
second growth fir
holding on.
Rainwater swirls
around the footing
of the new jail,
a concrete edifice,
three stories
and a basement
just off downtown.
Deborah Jean waits
at the outer door
in wet shoes,
then she waits
at the inner door,
the one someone
somewhere operates
like magic,
then waits in the little room
off the medium security pod
to look into the eyes
of someone she used to know.

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