by Daniel Lusk
Old men who eat alone in small cafes
arrange the silver carefully
beside the plate.
It crawls inside their cuffs
and edges out again along their templates
and the gothic arches of their brows.
Arranging is the life
now
isn't it.
Old men check their watches
frequently,
lest the sand run out unnoticed
onto the table by the water glass.
Their hands flutter
over the fork and spoon again, the knife,
as if the knife were a lost opportunity
or a love that might be set to rights.
Attentive as they are to these
small handles,
I suspect if they let go
they'll belly up with loneliness
and float off toward the ceiling fans
in all these small cafes
where I sit watching, hours on end,
to learn their little order,
eating alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment