Thursday, July 04, 2013

Dinner table

He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the taste of pepper in
hot soup.
And the feel of starch
as his hand brushed over
the ornate futility of
the white lace tablecloth.
The ornate futility that
had slipped quietly
into the conversation
hanging heavy in the air.
He was remembering
the day when he had seen,
with looking back eyes,
the crunch of fresh apples
and the shine of a knife.
The gleam of polished,
naked mahogany.
The glint of a sun ray
from a time before
the table was laid with
glittering, superfluous
silverware.
He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the voice that flew across it.
What was for lunch?
How was work?
Was the traffic bad?
Just yesterday
she had wanted to know
even about the most
mundane things.
And today
while he was dying alone
she was living on in oblivion.

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