On a moonless night the Loner awakens by some stirring
in his stomach and decides to go strolling around the Cross Roads.
As he walks he mumbles to himself. All of a sudden he stumbles
over something. It is the sleeping body of the Wretch.
He grumbles and turns around to continue his sleep.
“I never knew this is where the Wretch sleeps.
Isn’t the poor fool freezing out on these plains?”
Not too fussed about the comfort of the Wretch, the Loner
walks back to the Cross Roads. As the sun is rising he reaches
his pile of rocks. He fumbles through his little heap of earthly goods.
“What do I have to do to get something to eat? I’m so tired of
this hunger. I don’t know how the others stay alive.”
As the sun is revealing its full splendour the Carillon
commences its jolly morning song.
“Oh shut up, you blingy belly thing!” shouts the groggy Cave-Dweller.
“Can’t we just for once sleep the day away?”
“Argh, shut our own trap!” the Prehistoric Postal Agent hits back.
The Cave-Dweller clearly in a scurrilous mood reveals
what everyone has been thinking about:
“We have been here for time immemorial and we have
depleted all our food. There are no more roots, bulbs, fruit,
seeds, nuts and grasshoppers to be found.
I have lost all my energy and lust for life.”
“Thank Godot someone else is also thinking about their stomachs!”
the Loner vociferates.
Up until now no-one knew that the Loner has been rationing
his last piece of guava since last Winter’s harvest.
He takes it out from under his pile of rocks and lovingly rolls
the pink fruit in his palms. As salivation starts forming on
everyone’s lips, the Wretch comes plodding over the plains from
his cold and exposed sleeping spot and eyes the feeding proceedings
with great interest.
Unlike his non-sharing nature, the Loner cuts the remnant of the
guava into four miniscule pieces and hands it out to the
four other denizens of the Cross Roads.
“Oh, someone is in a generous mood.” the Anarchist glibly sputters out.
The Loner, stung to the quick, snatches the guava piece from
the Anarchist’s hand.
“You don’t deserve my giving spirit!” the Loner cries out.
“I want that piece!” screams out the Wretch. “I have been here
for much longer than any of you.”
The Carillon chimes in “What about me?
No one ever thinks of my alimentary needs!”
The links to the previous five Cross Roads poems >