The Walking Skeleton
From the restaurant doors
Sweet aromas creep;
Food some can afford,
Others only in sleep.
Both starving, we rush-
'This place looks a delight!'-
But hungry fingers clutch
My flesh, plump and white.
'Namaste!' he says
And wiggles his head,
As I shiver in the face
Of the living dead.
Sharp breath- I turn
Towards the light,
And leave him to creep
Back into night
And let tastes so sweet
Overpower my sight.
Copyright © Jenny Smith | Year Posted 2011
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