A poem for the impossible stage*
A dark room.
A small room.
It could be a prison cell.
A young man, in his thirties, sits in obscurity,
Listens to the noises outside the closed door.
Murmurs, gossip, footsteps in the distance.
Noise from the turning wheels of a metal cart.
The cart halts. The footsteps halt.
A key turns in the lock. A door opens.
Metal. Echo of low voices.
Metal door is closed; a key turns in the lock.
Cart and footsteps move closer.
The cart halts a second time.
Key inside lock; a second door.
Murmuring voices, door shuts.
Key, lock, cart, footsteps.
The young man listens.
Footsteps, cart, halt, footsteps,
Halt, key, lock, door opens.
Light flashes into cell.
Fork and knife clink against a bowl.
Bruco gets up from his chair,
Goes to the man, a guard.
The guard offers bowl
Of soup, bread, and a spoon.
The guard stands beside the metal cart,
Before the open metal door.
Bruco, time to eat.
Oh, go away. I don’t want to eat.
Better feed yourself,
Otherwise you won’t make it through.
Did you hear what I said?
All right, all right.
I’m going to leave the food on the floor . . .
Just in case.
In case you change your mind.
It’s near the door. The soup is near the door.
The door shuts. A key turns in the lock.
by Antonio D’Alfonso
New Book by Longbridge
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