By conservative estimates, there are currently enough wrongfully convicted people in prison in the United States to fill a football stadium.
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“You think you can walk right out?”
my father said. I did. I went
as far as I could from that house,
far from that town. I doubt
I could have traveled farther had I meant
to change my name, to walk right out
of the life I was born to, to applause
the world insists will make us confident
but never does. I trusted from that house
to this one, bridges burnt, the roads out,
even demons wouldn’t dare, but hell-bent
quests are circles: storm right out
a son hurt and rebellious
and in half a lifetime, in bewilderment,
you come home to your own house
and your sullen son without
the evidence to prove you’re innocent.
Some days I want to walk right out,
but can’t, won’t, must not leave this house.