Parole Plans

by Kenneth R. Brydon

I went to the Parole Board for the 18th time.
They asked how I was doing, and I said, “I’m fine.”
Then they said, “But Mr. Brydon, we’re really confused.
Last year, you had parole plans you could actually use.
This year, there’s nothing about where you’ll go.
We thought you were cooperating, and going with the flow?”

I smiled to them both and answered with head up high,
“My plans are for here, where you left me to die.
It’s not what I wanted; you still have no reason.
And I’ve fought the good fight, up till this season.
30 years have passed while I held on this hope.
30 years now tell me, that I’ll never be in your scope.”

“Now now, Mr. Brydon,” said the Chairman of the Board,
“You were, oh, so close, from gaining your reward.
Why, just last year, you had a great place to stay,
A loving family who care; a job with great pay.
It’s now 25 years that you’ve lived trouble free.
It’s now 25 years that you’ve been all you can be.”

“With all due respect,” came my curt reply,
“To me that’s just rhetoric, and an out and out lie.
It was only, oh, two years ago that I can relate,
Where you said I was only trying to manipulate.
It’s you Mr. Chairman, who said nobody’s ‘that’ good.
It’s you Mr. Chairman, whom I now see as rude.”

“Excuse me, sir!” He spoke in a loud voice,
“You’re the guilty one, who made that heinous choice!
You pulled the trigger, you committed the crime,
Look into the mirror to know why you’re doing time.
I must decide who is worthy to walk out that door,
I must decide who’ll walk free and never kill anymore.”

“Yes, sir,” I said gently, “that is a daunting task.
You must wonder who’s real, and who wears a mask.
No doubt, some have made your stomach turn,
No doubt, some you wished a parole in hell to burn.
I don’t envy your position; your worry must grow.
It must press very hard, seeing all you ever say is ‘No.’”

Mr. Chairman’s face had a nice shade of red to it,
He wanted a groveler, not someone who gave a shit.
The Deputy Commissioner sat watching with a slight grin.
He was amused, seeing my stand as one small win.
“Mr. Brydon,” he said, “perhaps you’re being a bit rash,
No one here has treated you as if you were trash.”

I choked down the laugh that wanted to come out.
“Sir,” I began, “it’s actions, not words that I count.
It is not only in me whom this perspective is to be found.
A 100 worthy men come up and 100 worthy get shot down.
Meanwhile you claim each are given the same rights.
But you’d scream in anguish if you paid a ticket twice.”

“We’ve heard enough,” spoke the red-faced man,
“You’re denied parole, next time bring us a plan.
This sort of thing is certainly going to trouble you,
There is good reason for you to see your hopes through.”
He pointed. “You’re better than what I’m seeing here,
Perhaps you’ll have a better attitude in another year.”

“So sorry, but no, I’m through playing this trick,
No more will I be jackass, chasing a carrot on a stick.
I’ve done 10 times what you need to be satisfied,
10 times beyond, what your cold heart has denied.
So, call me scum for a mistake at 19 I do admit,
But I’ll sleep well tonight, for not being a hypocrite.”

The guard made haste in escorting me to the door,
A smirk on his face said he knew what it was for.
“Man,” he said, “don’t you care about going home?
What are you going to say to family on the phone?
If you give up, whose hearts will be broken?
And what of this great faith of which you’ve spoken?”

“Their hearts have broken some 19 times before,
But they’re very proud of who I’ve become behind this door.
My faith holds true, though some may think otherwise,
I try to serve others, and, no one, do I despise.”
Walking back to my cell I breathed in air anew.
No fear of my future, gave me wings on which I now flew.