After the metal detector, there was no pat down.
A guard marked my wrist with ultraviolet ink
that shone in blacklight. Since I had cleared
the background check, my books were my identification.
The inmates sat in bleachers of the big gymnasium
where the sultry air smelled of perspiration and weights.
After I read each poem, they snapped their fingers
to encourage me to keep going. A few licked ice cream cones.
Wearing clean khaki uniforms, they raised their hands politely
to pose rather personal questions, before forming a line,
like ambassadors, to shake my hand. A famous economist
had argued with them about Capitalism, they reported,
which they believed was based on lies, not trust.
If you lie, they said, you become the president.