Against the Clock

I have one 

lone minute

to persuade you

not to kill me

Talk about racing

the time clock

My life 

literally 

hanging

in the delicate

balance

between

your fleeting 

concern for

my well-being

and the way

your mouth

salivates

when a 

faint whiff of

my grilled, 

dismembered flesh 

finds its way into 

your sharply

protruding nose

Yet, even with

unlimited time 

at my disposal,

you’d be 

hard pressed 

to call this fight 

equitable

You don’t have 

to witness my 

body fall,

fail, twitch,

squirm, bleed

Someone handles

that process for you,

in a building 

of windowless walls

that conveniently obstruct

your sight

I can’t bottle

the stench or the sound

of the slaughterhouse floor;

and you have never

stepped a single foot 

inside those walls 

of your own accord

How could I 

possibly 

convince you

I am worth more 

than a few momentary

seconds of taste,

if you won’t even

acknowledge

my existence

until you see

pieces of me

shrink-wrapped 

in the store?

17 Dec 2018

written as part of a timed poetry competition in rounds