DAY 8 – Confined

April 8, 2019

The prompt given by the official NaPoWriMo site: incorporate the argot of a particular job or profession into a metaphor that guides or drives your poem.

Okay, so an entire ‘restaurant’ based poem on waiter and guess- guess where the jargon hides?




In the days of yore,

When the days were different,

I stumbled in, half-starved

Nourished unwholesomely.

Joy lived then in cold morsels

Stroked to life in a coal fire.

But oft, oh, oft I ate a sundry

Or nothing at all,

Contend with drinking just

The freshness from the air.

But one of those very old days

I happened to stumble in,

Half – starved, by chance,

into a cafe that seeked

The willing talent to serve.

And ah, the aroma of cordon bleus,

Bizarre to my tamed tongue,

Yet titillating to my senses.

Ever since, delicacies on dishes,

In fancy waitress aprons drab,

I’ve been serving, capering fatigued

With the routine pirouettes past

Similar alleys of tables.

Tasting tongues spent many a tribute,

But then, soon they would disappear-

Disappeare back to the streets that once

Guaranteed to my gnawing stomach

The assorted scramble of a hunted meal

Cold under the warmth of sun.

I shudder, and turn back to my patties

That for years I’ve now been heating.

But disdain drapes my smile dead.

Too many tastes I’ve upon me forced-

Each heated with care and seasoned.

Applauded by bypassing critics, yes

Yet frozen pattys at the end of the day,

Somewhere still lacking life.

Too many dishes, too many tastes,

Now already I’ve suffocated.

The plates drying up now, untouched,

Dying on the pass.

Food turns to poison

and I ask for a breathe

A breath as cold as ice,

As cold as the motley fed as fare,

Now dying on the pass.

I look out the window-

Years of the yore,

Cold morsels in the street.

Cold food concealed in the oven

Within the walls of the cafe –

Yes, the cafe that fed me once.

Yet now, I look out the window

And maybe imagine I hear

The thrill of inexpensive laughter

Gifted to the gulps of free air.

At last the visor cap,

From my hair I untangle

After years of hesitation,

Placing it pleadingly on the pass

The sun beyond the little window

That shells me in,

Begins to swell red to sink.

Can you reclaim me

To your shedless warmth?

I thirst for unbought gulps

Of freshness from the air.

I shake my head, still scared.

And the food – the warm food,

Has died on the pass.



I am inviting you all to join me in this venture. Use the prompt given above to craft your own verses.
And oh, be sure to tag me.




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