Forkinbroth - A Prison Cell Soliloquy
I am a fork of sorts- an otherwise useful tool -suddenly sold for a pair of shoesand thrust into an endlesspool of soupSteaming, livid, lost in brothunable to clench this liquidwith my sharp- tipped fingers and stymied teethNo lip, no dip to sip by,no curvacious bendto cup the stuffto lift to lips,to feed the famished…to magnanimously GIVEAll this iron - useless but for ironya squandering of talenta parody & mockery of hands to make,of tongues to taste,the senselessness of tables standing,and napkins napping.The utter futility of flamesfinding selves stoked so strenuouslyfor the sake of stewing this bowlthat will eventually go cold.And no to mention the wastedtoil of well-tilled soilthat set about to sprout fresh greens,to bud potatoes, to bear forth beansall for the sake of nourishingone day some mouthfrom some steam-tipped bowlof liquid lifethat I and I aloneam destined to provideLike a flat note after the entireorchestra of creationa humility after harmonya travesty of talent & promise- a magnitidinous squanderingAnd I sit and imaginewaking one morningafter seeping so long in this cauldronand finding myself suddenly morphedinto long-destined shapeand state ofspoonTo be a spoon - smooth and rounded, arched and holdingcupping, dipping long, fulfilling callingHow all my destiny there sits- to be a spoon -to grasp and holdand transmit"Come pass the spoon to all who swoon from hunger!"to all the aching famished families of manthat long await the steady handthat sits enslaved – so sensely -in this dungeon.Ah, but turn me into spoonto serve this stewand I am sure to burna tongue or two.And let me looseto share this foodand all my dreamswill follow suit.