Premature Birth: When do 'people' become too sickened to eat and too guilty to leave?

*Down Memory Lane: More than one year ago, this powerfully-crafted magnificent poem graced this link. The masterly deployment of apt, graceful images while exploring the complex isolation and pain of the human condition, simply transformed a ridiculous subject into the sublime! Don't you think so?

For this exceptional creative skill, the piece earns position nine as top-ten most memorable poems to have appeared in these links since I joined. (Watch out soon for my number eight in this subjective count-down).

Premature

By Todd

The Birthing was like bloating

from that extra slice of cheesecake.

Nothing expansive:

the rack of lamb, red potatoes

of normal mothers with smiles,

not pained closed zippers.

It was like a gallstone,

a boring sting with no reward,

to be forgotten

not spoken above whispers.

It was astonishing

that this tinyredwrinkled thing could

breathe its wet wheezes.

No bigger than one of those asthmatic handbag

dogs, silent judges

and mocking,

pretty, pale blue bows.

There would be no cigars, handshakes,

glad slaps on shoulders.

The room filled with embarrassed grins,

vague apologies,

like sitting constipated

in a public bathroom stall

listening for each quick rattle,

each agitated

successive

Bang!

As patrons come and go.

It lingered afterwards

like a bad meal in a greasy spoon.

You paid, and paid, and paid,

too sickened to eat, too guilty to leave

the Styrofoam box behind--

The damning evidence

of leftovers

unwanted, undigested.

1 year ago

<<The poet's comments: "This is the result of some ideas I've been kicking around--highly personal ones, but not sure if they fully work yet. This is a very early draft. I want to thank ObscureB and Margot for some invaluable pre-posting comments. Any feedback is appreciated.

Lori: I was a little over two pounds and did not come home from the hospital for over two months. I can relate to your sister quite well.

Thank you>>.