Little Cartons, Little Sacks

Little Cartons, Little Sacks The mug of tea I drank at six, the tea that drives me to the train, needs a refill. At my desk, I don’t do much. I wait for lunch when every day I eat so much the waitress gawks. She doesn’t realize the years till supper. Then I’ll dine alone again, bolt everything that I bring home in little cartons, little sacks. After supper she’s not there when the couch becomes my slab till bed becomes my mausoleum Donal Mahoney