In Florence, Alabama,
the other day,
a corrections officer ran away
from her job and her home
and the life that she’d known
with her paycheck in hand
and a man in her charge
the sheriff described as
dangerous—and armed.
She worked in corrections
for seventeen years,
a steady, reliable, valued employee.
He was charged with capital murder,
facing a death sentence,
held without bail,
and late last week
they walked out of the jail.
No one has seen them.
Nobody knows where they are
and the sheriff in Florence
is shaking his head.
We’re all still in shock;
no one saw this coming, he said,
The men at the jail
tell a whole different tale.
It was common knowledge,
the prisoners maintain.
Hardly a secret,
and jailhouse scuttlebutt notwithstanding,
the prisoners report
it was months in the planning.
There are BOLOs and bulletins
and "if you've seen this man..."
and the sheriff in Florence
just can't understand.
A few days on the run,
and they’ll turn on each other.
I was helpless, she’ll say,
he'll blame the whole thing
on her
and part of me
just wants to take her
and shake her
and ask, not so nicely,
what’s wrong with you, girl—
But a part I deny
or say that I've lost;
a part that I hide
and the one that still hurts—
the one that is waiting
and shaped like a heart—
hopes against hope
they might make it work.