Tim Cremin

File No. 20120316

“I’m not ready,” I told them. “Can’t I have one more day to get my things in order?”
 
“You’ve had plenty of time already,” they said. I couldn’t argue with that. I mean, I knew this day was coming, but I didn’t think this would be the day.
 
They put me on a bus with some others and for a moment I was excited that I’d finally get to see what’s beyond the fence. Then the cold sweat broke out on my neck. I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that I’d promised not to fall apart when the time came.
 
The bus drove through an old scrap metal yard. You could smell the rust. Well, no wonder—it’s always so cold and damp here. I mean, every morning I wake up and my feet are warm and dry, but then I have to stick them in those shoes and sponge around all day—my toes are numb in an hour and by the end of the day the cold has seeped all the way up past my ankles.
 
It was a pretty short bus ride. We all got off and walked toward a narrow building, maybe five or six stories high. The guard at the door told me it cost a hundred bucks. I tried to give him my silver chain but he said, “We only take cash.”
 
For a moment I was hopeful that they wouldn’t be able to execute me—I couldn’t afford it. But then they took me up a narrow staircase to a small room at the top. My mother was there and I understood they were going to make her pay for me. I handed her my wallet and said, “I might be a little short.”
 
Then I woke up. My feet were warm and dry.

“don’t go in there,”

I am trying to tell them

but I am an animal—

people don’t understand

my growls

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About the Author

Tim Cremin is a high school math teacher in Massachusetts.  His poetry has appeared in many journals, including Acorn, bottle rockets, Failed Haiku, Frogpond, Mayfly, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and tinywords. His collection of haiku, senryu, tanka, haibun, and haiga, “Watching a Candle by Candlelight,” is available from Red Moon Press

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