by Noel Sloboda

In morning darkness he wakes in a cell,
zigzags confusedly toward the door;
lets loose an angry, ear-shattering roar;
complains about the awful goddamn smell;
rattles his bars--anything to compel
release--stomps his feet on the concrete floor;
insists he has never been drunk before
being locked away in this private hell.
Roused by the racket, the other inmates,
out of sight on either side of his cage,
promise great pain if this rant does not end.
Voices cold and firm, like those of the fates,
temper yet do not kill his spiteful rage;
silent now he plies bars that don’t bend.

© 2007 by Noel Sloboda


About the Author

Noel Sloboda, originally from New England, currently teaches at Penn State York and serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of places, including Hazmat Review, Studies in the Humanities, FRiGG, Triptych Haiku, The Cape Rock, Academic Exchange Extra, Waterways, and Ghoti.


All content copyright © 2006-12 by ShatterColors, unless otherwise indicated. All rights reserved.
Reproduction of material, in whole or in part, from any ShatterColors Literary Review
pages without written permission of the copyright owners is strictly prohibited.
Site designed and built by Robert Scott Leyse, with input and logo by Granville Papillon,
and wallpaper by Edward Haven from two of his paintings.