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