nthposition online magazine

The condemned cell

by Derek Adams

[ poetry - march 09 ]

Pallid cream paint reflects
the jaundiced light
from a bare tungsten bulb
hanging in the stillness
of the deserted room.
A door, now open, frames
table, chair and beyond,
the bed already stripped.

Outside the sun climbs
above the rattle of
early morning trams,
here only the restrained tick
of the grim clock:
hands stretching toward six.