deepundergroundpoetry.com
Meal Ticket
By the railway line
there were no visible signs
no screams to hear
no tears between the weeds
no single drop of blood
I could not stay long
after the flies found me
I was the only tourist to bite
but I felt enough
to absorb the moment that was
My heart still freezes
when I think of it
I am outraged by the idea
although I know I will never come to terms
with such depths of madness,
but the simple mathematics
of too many mouths hanging open for too long
creates the most desperate begging equation of all
and as usual India,
where the game of chess was invented
counters with its next move
If I could have put myself on the track
in place of that little boy
who looked up lovingly
into his father's eyes
but I was always much too late
and shame alone changes nothing
I have lived
with all four of my limbs
for so much longer
never once staring down
at my starved and swollen belly
never once shaking a bowl
with one thin arm
as he does now
for all his days
Whose madness is blinder then
at home wheeling pushchairs
smug fathers' nods are exchanged
and as Christmas is coming
our jingle bells drown out
the next approaching train
there were no visible signs
no screams to hear
no tears between the weeds
no single drop of blood
I could not stay long
after the flies found me
I was the only tourist to bite
but I felt enough
to absorb the moment that was
My heart still freezes
when I think of it
I am outraged by the idea
although I know I will never come to terms
with such depths of madness,
but the simple mathematics
of too many mouths hanging open for too long
creates the most desperate begging equation of all
and as usual India,
where the game of chess was invented
counters with its next move
If I could have put myself on the track
in place of that little boy
who looked up lovingly
into his father's eyes
but I was always much too late
and shame alone changes nothing
I have lived
with all four of my limbs
for so much longer
never once staring down
at my starved and swollen belly
never once shaking a bowl
with one thin arm
as he does now
for all his days
Whose madness is blinder then
at home wheeling pushchairs
smug fathers' nods are exchanged
and as Christmas is coming
our jingle bells drown out
the next approaching train
Published 8th Dec 2009
| Edited 19th Jul 2012
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Anonymous
8th Dec 2009 6:01pm
So beautiful that I feel envious at not having come up with it myself:-) Stunningly beautiful, the language delicate and serene, the message dark and haunting. You are that rare, precious thing: a poet.
8th Dec 2009 6:11pm
The idea of crippling your own child to maximise its begging potential - out of necessity - still can't get my head round that. But thanks Jack, for this greatest of praise - coming from yourself it means a great deal.
Anonymous
8th Dec 2009 6:13pm
Desperation can make a man little more than his animalistic ancestors; not that that's an axcuse for doing something as hideously vile as the thing you so wonderfully expound upon here.
Anonymous
9th Dec 2009 1:51pm
to sau what,thank u for this lovely piece.
9th Dec 2009 3:47pm
... how to do more to get this message across - unfortunately more people like to read about other subject matter, which frustrates me - as it did after writing "Shame in Times Square" - we can only keep banging on the drum I guess.
