Behind slamming doors i walk
hearing the trash that they talk
They can't phase me any more
I am callused to the core
They still try to get to me
But I know that I am free
Even though I still go home
They show up in this poem
They haunt the dreams in my head
They wake me up out of bed
I feel scared sometimes I do
But I do this job for you
I try to keep them away
for as long as their short stay
I put myself in the path
of a hard-core felons wrath
To protect you from my hell
they are locked into a cell
I have to deal with them now
you don't even ask me how
Now they have become my job
my humanity they rob
I can't feel pity no more
working daily with a whore
Few can do the job I do
Aren't you glad it's not you?
By Joel Bond
Corrections Officer
