I am in one of the cells on the upper deck
just me and my Maglight, looking under steel bunks and thin mattresses for contraband.
Contraband is in my daily vocabulary.
Contraband could be a number of things,
cigarettes
drugs
weapons
ink pens
1 too many comic books.
There is a particular smell to detention,
institutional cleaning supplies and their failure to mask urine and all the lost things.
In this cell there is no contraband.
the Maglight shines on some dust in the corner,
what am I doing looking for contraband.
I went to art school.
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