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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There is the farm house,
the long wind still blowing at the corners.
There is the bad marriage in the windows
and on the telephone wires. Five years only,
older than the refrigerator and the gas stove
and our first money.
The barn where the horse slept is still gray with winter.
I idle outside on the country dirt road.
It’s just a moment,
after driving hours to get here.
I’ve come back,
hoping no one would see me.
Two ditches of January ice on each side,
the beans and corn gone.
But there we are coming home at night.
I’m unhappy as usual,
the lights on till late.
The car parked under the tree at the curve.
No one going anywhere until tomorrow.
Robert P. Cooke