No Cold Metal

I visited you in prison.
Each time I rounded the corner
you sprang from the cheap plastic table.
You had all the strappings of
a free person: no cold metal
wrapped around your skin;
no shining reminders of your
conviction.

On those days, the Sun spun
more quickly around the Earth.
The nature of your
confinement dictated the 
luxuries of our encounters.
That is, we never discussed cost.

It occurred to me halfway through
I had never seen your cell.
We met in lobbies, cafeterias, courtyards.
Perhaps there wasn't much to see,
I suspected.
Barren walls, a stiff pillow,
evidence of a life without privacy.

What did not occur to me, though,
was why you were in prison -
the real reason -
or for how long.

The day twice circled on my
calendar finally arrived, and
again I paid you a visit.
I checked the lobby,
the cafeteria,
the courtyard.
I asked the warden about you,
and he handed me a piece of paper.

I drew an X over the two circles
and pitched my plans into the trash.
You had always known.
You're welcome, I suppose.