Doing Time Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

There are no windows in my room
The Steel touches me every time I move
And the air smells of unknowns
That I have got used to

I can count the steps it takes for the walking man to reach
From the other end, I call Hell
As mine looks like closer to life
I am fortunate to be here breathing on my own

The Yard times are when a whistle is blown
My trudge is short, a walk to distancing
Earned for the good things I did
Or I am entitled to, without complaints

Dinner is a luxury, I savour the taste of butter
When I crunch the bread or touch the lentils
To replace the broth that spreads on everything
No sweets are served, as there is no need with so much around

Than the outside, where it is bitter journey
That migrants and daily earners have to make
All their savings bundled on their head
With a lone hand touching the child or the mother

Some are making twenty miles a day on foot
While free, I am
Some are braving heat and resistance
While I am, doing time, fortunately

Doing time is like taking each moment
And think that you earned it
But you must put your best foot
For the next moment, which for all you know
May not be coming your way, otherwise