We stood in a long line
waiting
for the door to be unlocked.
Out in the cold wind,
round the razor wire fenced in cell block.
Young
mommas with babies,
sisters,
and other kinds of kids.
At Tallulah State Prison on Thanksgiving Day,
we're waiting to get in.
You gotta get here early.
It don't matter
how many miles you drove.
They make you wait for hours.
Jailors
always move slow.
They run names,
check numbers,
gravel faced guards that don't smile.
Grammy and me
in line silently waiting,
single file.
It's Thanksgiving at the prison,
surrounded by families.
Road weary pilgrims who show up faithfully.
Sometimes love ain't easy.
Sometimes love ain't free.
My Grammy looks so old now.
Her hair is soft and white like the snow.
Her hands tremble
when they frisk her from her head to her toes.
They make her take her winter coat off.
Then they frisk her again.
When they're done,
she wipes their touch off her dress,
stands tall and heads in.
It's Thanksgiving at the prison,
surrounded by families.
Road weary pilgrims
who show up faithfully.
Even though it ain't easy,
even though it ain't free.
Sometimes love ain't easy.
I guess love ain't free.