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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