Tom sits in his cramped container
Trapped in a box with a plug in his ass, if not a spring.
That thought shot sent a spasm of fear through his bowls
Eventually Tom sleeps, the fire dies down,
light filters through the curtains heralding the dawn.
The hour of his reckoning is near.
The agonising pain in his stiffened limbs
makes that prospect seem quite welcome.
But the Christmas conventions in this affluent home
require that he waits and suffers a little longer.
Hungrily he listens to the sounds of eating
spicing and prolonging his torment.