Lunchtime

 

When I don’t go out to talk lunch talk,

I stay home and we eat lunch.

 

We don’t talk but we make delicious food noise.

 

I let you play with fruits that stain –

cast their color onto our old wooden table.

 

I drop the silver, then pick it up,

to watch your face hear it crash.

 

A wet check, a torn book, a cracked phone –

proof in my hand that your new body wills a mark.

 

Again, I offer you the dirty shoe you love to chew.

 

Together we prepare for a time when things

might not be good.

 

Written 2013

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