he wears thick dark frames,
his pale overwashed shirt
hanging limply over his thin body
as he
hunches over his soup
watching as it grows cold.
His milky hands
tenderly hold a hand written note
maybe from his dead wife
as he slowly deconstructs his sandwich:
peeling off the bread,
the tomato
the cheese
the skirt of lettuce
the feeble ham
and nibbles on each separately,
quietly
intently
as if it was
exactly the way he imagined
his grief:
slowly eating away at it
one bit
at a time
until it occupies his insides
lives there with its weight
and he knows he'll hunger later
for more
but for now,
its gone
and no one sees it anymore.
Comments