Hard Boiled Ride

I was reading a newspaper article.
A reporter had ridden along side convicts
to a prison on the outskirts of Colorado;
chronicling the trip,
for the publics amusement.
I couldn’t help by envision this ride;
a trip east.
Rolling fields of wheat erupted
like golden fingers pointing
towards their fated doom.
One would feel ill,
others sick from sooty plush seats.
Vomit stains on the floor,
spewed from a desolate soul
whose abnormal thirst is now- forever dry.
In twisted jumpsuits and swollen feet
their chains click and cling
with every bump in the road.
The wretched smell of rye and whiskey
has faded into their forbidden senses;
no longer drunkards.
Their faces- bad mouthed,
wide eyed, messed open tongues.
Their faces- collapsed into their baby hands;
their faces were in a flesh of fear.