My Turn?

we lined up for the morning gruel fifty men pushing and shoving over food not meant for ten our growling bellies set the rhythm our dry and perched lips urge us on the limbs that have been worn out by toil and daily hassle barely holding and the rags on our backs unable to withstand the cold let alone shield our nakedness from prying eyes look like dry banana leaves in the wind the line ambles along, hope in the air our metallic cups clanging our sleepy eyes and foggy heads trying to keep up the foul smell of unwashed bodies dilutes the starchy aroma of porridge but our noses too tired to notice we edge closer to the huge cauldron salivary glands awaken the tongue is roused from slumber I'm first in line, no pot in sight no wonder eleven is seen as unlucky