deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Inmate
Deftly,
Crudely,
He examined
His doom.
Steak,
And potatoes,
Cradled by the plate,
Getting cold.
His stomach,
Up in arms,
And his fork,
Rebels against
The meal.
Brain crying,
“Eat,
What else is
There to do?”
Despite protestations
His hand remained
A neutral,
Silent and still.
Unconsciously
Unable
To glut
His final hour.
Crudely,
He examined
His doom.
Steak,
And potatoes,
Cradled by the plate,
Getting cold.
His stomach,
Up in arms,
And his fork,
Rebels against
The meal.
Brain crying,
“Eat,
What else is
There to do?”
Despite protestations
His hand remained
A neutral,
Silent and still.
Unconsciously
Unable
To glut
His final hour.
Published 23rd Feb 2010
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24th Feb 2010 8:43pm
25th Feb 2010 1:56am
Hmm...interesting subject. This feels like a taster (no pun intended), like maybe a longer poem could flow from this?
25th Feb 2010 2:26am
That's an interesting idea, I hadn't thought about it. I think perhaps if I were to do it I would probably write a series of prison poems rather than expanding on this single poem. But I am fascinated by prisoner literature, so perhaps it's something to think about.
8th Mar 2011 6:00am
i know how you feel exactly...i went in ata young age and experienced wat alo of young adults shouldnt of. I like this poem alot because it brings back on how i felt in that hell.
great work
great work
9th Oct 2011 3:14am
Anonymous
19th Jul 2012 11:57am
Nicely written, I like the form and flow. Interesting subject as well...Peace, Miki
19th Dec 2013 4:24pm
2nd Jan 2015 8:11am
I like the way you made the meal a character and witness to his final moments ... Ironic on many levels because meals are meant to sustain life
