by J. Clifford Milligan
The gangbanger
spent twelve years in prison
and was released
without shoes.
The guards shook him from sleep
one morning
and pushed him out the gate
with flip flops on his feet.
He was a free man, beyond the walls
and walked twelve miles in the gravel
on the shoulder
of the highway.
And the blisters swelled and popped,
he said.
Every step I took
it hurt me.
And he saw a help wanted sign
in the window of a warehouse
and went in.
Behind the desk an old woman watched
and listened to him ask about the job
and shift from foot to foot.
She shook her head slowly,
held up a finger
and disappeared into the back.
She returned with a pair of socks
and a pair of sneakers.
We’re not hiring at the moment,
but take these honey
and be on your way.
At this point, his eyes began to leak
and he wiped at the tattoo on his face
then stopped talking.
The six of us circled in silence
looked at our knees, which
if viewed from above
would have formed
the shape of a star.
We mumbled in unison,
Thanks for sharing.
And then the next guy spoke.
© 2024 J. Clifford Milligan All rights reserved.
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As a well seasoned traveler in and through quite a few rehabs, one hears many many stories, each unique , yet so uniting. Thank you for sharing this viewpoint.
This poem is deceptively simple – each time I read it, the symbols you use punch me in the gut – shoes and feet and knees. As an AA survivor, your poem is inspiring that stories and experiences are important and by sharing we share healing. Thank you for sharing and inspiring