It is a moon wrapped in brown paper
from, “Valentine,” by Carol Ann Duffy
The small, square window’s bars are iron grey. Much of the time I’m a thin lump hunkered on a concrete slab, sandwiched between straw mattress and cotton feather tick. Only my capped head, bright eyes, and red nose are visible. Even lice die when it’s this cold.
I hear the squeaky wheels of the cart that starts and stops. Three times a day the tin tray is shoved through the slot at the bottom of the door. Lumpy, tepid gruel; over-boiled vegetables with animal broth; and a desiccated potato with mystery meat. On Sundays, we are given a piece of withered fruit. It also marks time. I scratch another line on the wall next to a tattered photograph.
She visits through evening’s window. The bars disappear. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. I reach out and open my gift. I’m warm again.
Björn is today’s host of dVerse’ Prosery. Björn says:
Write a piece of prose that incorporates the given set of words and they have to come in exactly the order given, but you may break it up with punctuation. The maximum number of words is 144 (which is a gross) including the given line. Many try to hit that mark exactly, but it’s not mandatory.