Crossings - Native Nod

Crammed in a space

Less than six feet by two feet

Like veal ready for slaughter

He lies there

Unable to move

The walls binding him in his place

Are the flesh of the men around him

No room to even sit up

Iron clamps bind him to his partner

No bathroom in sight

He’s forced to relieve himself

Right where he lies

Contributing to the unbearable stench

So foul that any man unaccustomed to it

Would surely pass out

No mats

No sheets

He lies there on the splintering wood

And on a stormy night

His flesh would be shed down

To the bare bone

Oozing puss and blood

Onto the already excrement filled floor

Any thoughts of mutiny

That may have crossed his brain quickly fade

As he views a fellow uncooperative slave

Flogged to near death with a cat of nine tails

Steel tips glistening with blood

In the hot equatorial sun

He falls

Down

Hopeless