Much of the time in here,
gazing in half-thought at nothing,
hair matching the bed, desk, chair;
he knew they were waiting,
hot cooking oil again -
that happened the first week -
a beating, mutilation,
not the ultimate though,
that was too nice for him;
he knew that, oh yes, he knew that,
why he had a four man escort, one in riot gear.
the click, open door, the tray;
‘the cake’s from your mother, scum,’
picking up the mug, spitting the weak tea back in.
‘no sugar, they don’t put sugar in for you.’
the closing door, the click; he bit in,
the broken knife cutting into gum
roof, lip, tongue, now screaming,
the blood like the jam in the cake,
hearing them laughing, the banging,
trying in agony to take the bits out,
the thought now coming that he didn’t have a mum.
