The man seated across from you
is slurping
smacking lips, beast and pen
bits of his pastry
trailing down to his crotch.
He is proud
perched like a hog in heat
diagonal your loveseat spine
collarbone taut and twitching
he is staring at your skinny jeans.
You can't look him square in the eyes -
you're afraid it will unleash
that last bit of posture
keeping you in your seat
binding your restraint
from kicking him in the balls.
You didn't go to work today.
Instead, you sat on your living room carpet
contemplating the painted walls
translating the handprints in the dust
behind the bookcase
waiting waiting
for something else to grieve.
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