Monday, March 2, 2009

A Spare Place

A Spare Place


I sit in a chair and gaze

At the faces opposite me;

Our hands trembling in unison

My keepers will never see

The shame I feel as I sit in

Soiled underwear, pervading

My soul, turning hope to dust

And I shall never leave this place

Of death and despair; ‘till a bag

Is zipped; they’ll cover my face

For fear I may cause offence.


Somebody said we have fish

For lunch; like a Mexican wave

Our frail excitement undulates

And we smile. No one is brave

Enough to ask” Is the fish fresh?”

Thus risking censorial frowns;

It pays to not rock the boat.

Mrs. Baker died yesterday.

Not one person lamented this,

No feelings in disarray;

A spare place at the table.

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