Hot Food
It hurts, this prickly lash
this lack of cold cash
whipping at flesh
like raspberry canes.
The blood flow is so slow
one would hardly know
that people are dying
`though we make the front page.
Thoughts and prayers
yeah, they’re nice, but
hot food would surely suffice
the empty wanting within this cage.
Kept down here, like feral cats,
watching close for those rats
then attacking suddenly
hearts consumed by rage.
Only then are we noticed
when it’s time to control us
fear making reaction
so difficult to gauge.
Wanting help, but not trusting,
one wrong move, they’ll be busting
your hungry ass back
to a more manageable cage.
By Jeanne MacGregor Lahn
This poem was written by Jeanne Lahn on Apr 15, 2006.
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