by Glen Martin Fitch
I went into the staff room
on my break.
I opened up the 'fridge and
got inside.
The door slammed shut.
That made the bottles shake.
Good sign at least,
the light stayed on.
I tried but failed
to find a latch.
I thought:
“Cold trap!
To yell
would use up all the air in here.
To sleep
I might not wake or
I could tap in hope
that someone, sometime
just might hear.”
I woke without a scream
but wet with sweat.
The trap was not my job
but my despair of doing
what I someday might regret.
To get such good advice in life
is rare.
I faced a truth
I never would admit.
With no excuse
I said, "I have to quit."
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011