Phone Call from a Slave Ship

Posted on January 28, 2008
Filed Under Uncategorized |

Rupert File

Why worry over frail Josie not knowing where I am

When I don’t even know where I am, but

Judging through steel mesh, we’re headed downtown

Me and Major, just met, cuffed-up.

“Got DAMN,” Major goes, knee-pounding the DAMN,

my left hand helping his right, having to.

Me with problems too - frail Josie not knowing

Where I am one. Last night another -

Josie breathing, “I love you.”

“Me too,” somebody mean went.

“Can’t you say it?”

“IT. How’s that. It, it, it,” me so slick.

Now in this place, pocket-emptied,

Crack-searched, plastic-glove patted, shoe-shook

Nothing mean or slick left.

In the bench soon we get our call -

Mostly whines to bosses, lawyers.

Everybody listening, nobody guilty.

Mine though finds a soft voice across town - Josie’s.

IT gets whispered, her going, “what?”

I cup the phone. The benches lean forward.

Still it’s “what?”

“I love you, Josie” comes hollered and

“Whooo - lover-boy” go the benches, thigh slapping

drowning frail Josie’s reply.

Slump-sitting I try to dissolve, to not be lover-boy

Close-eyed, I hear us in the hold,

Some moaning, some singing,

Me scurvy-heartsick already

Still smelling land.

4 Responses to “Phone Call from a Slave Ship”

Anonymous on January 28th, 2008 10:48 pm

I think you might have had too much of that Scotch.
Matlock on January 29th, 2008 2:53 am

This is your brain.

This is your brain in New York.
Mark Bennett on January 29th, 2008 4:09 am

Philistines. That’s a great prison poem, along with:

Inside the prison
There is a prison
Inside the person.
Anonymous on January 29th, 2008 9:36 pm

Don’t quit your day job.