Saturday, December 14, 2013

Squeaking, a poem


The honey-colored hamster went
round and round, the squeaking
of his wheel a soundtrack
for our play, our awkward
acting of the love scene
I had just written in my mind.

Who would bother to count
the revolutions? We all go
around, you know, and think
we have arrived somewhere,
with fresh newspapers to tell
us things have changed.

In the dark silence of after,
not noticing the wheel
had ceased to turn, we whispered
of fate and of love but I
knew that each cage is somewhere
in a larger cage.

I and the hamster accept this;
we have put the world
in a cage, where it can
do no harm. Inside
is outside and my wheel
still goes round and round.

You will, someday see
the wires around you. This
I have known all along.
I have laid awake too many
nights beside you, and heard
the squeaking start anew.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

Very much first-drafty and maybe not all that interesting nor original a concept. It pretty much all arose from the image of the hamster---the phrase honey-colored hamster just came into my mind and that set it off. A couple hours of off-and-on jotting and this is the result.

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