Society

Every morning
he arose at four
In the dark pitch of night.
bitter black tea and stale cracker.

Wandering down the meandering path
hunched with hoe and beaten water spicket.
Deeply past the dilapidated shed
to the very end, out of sight.

Unhinged gate
abandoned to rot, flanked in rust.
long faced, knee deep in dingy earth
captivated with pebble eyes.

Cultivation, the breeding place.
His twisted deformed thorn bush.
Gnawing! Pricking! Stabbing-
his loving fingers pressed on.

Under the clouded gloom of the moon
he pulled up his bloodied sleeve
The bush outstretched, starving with open mouth
he drained the cup of misery on it once more.