This is a poem I wrote after reading about a man who had been made redundant and has only a tin of spaghetti to eat every day.

a tin sits on a table

alone

surrounded by nothing

a dull cylinder of aluminium

encased in a dull white cover

two ends poking out

trying to escape

but going nowhere

he stares at the tin

and the image burns in his eye

embedded in his memory

of what may be his last meal

a tin of brand less, tasteless spaghetti

given to him by a stranger

seeing his look of desperate hunger

the anguish of an empty stomach

picking up the tin-opener

tainted with the remains of

yesterday’s dull white label

he struggles to connect the

opener to the tin

weak with hunger

it clicks loudly and with a

clunk begins to remove the

lid, every turn a noisy struggle

and then it is off

edges jagged waiting to tear

apart unsuspecting flesh on

its sharp, uneven teeth

as the contents are revealed

grey processed worms concealed

in bright manmade orange fluid

he swallows the feeling of

revulsion, the tinge of nausea

because today this is

his one and only meal

the one bit of food he will

consume to keep him going until

tomorrow

when the process begins again……………………

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