Saturday, December 31, 2011

Poetry is in the pain

There is a method to the madness
A rhythm that is not quite patented
A picture that talks of many histories untold
That took behind the thin, insecure door

It trickles, from the tank overhead
Through the winding pipes and rusted corners
To the stained plastic bucket
That waits patiently for the results to be declared

Her right index finger carries evidence
Of a few occasional burns
Of splattering oil or boiling water
And even the bite of a mad dog

With that same index finger
She sifts through the black grains
Hoping it has little dust
So as to find just the granules for the first cup

And as the light breaks into the room
Through an undesirable crack in the glass
It dances to a familiar yet distant tune
As she rubs a quarter plate in vengeance

Then she breaks into a routine smile
With cup and saucer in hand
And one browned bitter rusk
She walks over to the ledge

Feet dangling, slurping sounds
A crunch unpleasant, as crumbs gather
On the lap that has held no child
She breathes her first free breath

---- Ends ----