The Man On The Wooden Chair Poem by Len Webster

There is a man sitting on a plain, home-made wooden chair in the centre of the room.

The man's arms are stretched behind the straight, wooden back.

If you could see behind, you would find his hands tied tightly with rope.

Above, the light-bulb flickers.

There are no windows and the plasterwork is broken, lying in patches on the bare floor.

When the door opens, a pool of light flows into the room, casting shadows.

The man in the chair does not move. His head down, he is unaware of the figure in the doorway, unaware of the word carried along the human chain towards the office where a man in uniform sits blowing cigar smoke circles in the air.

' Dead, ' says the echo.