|floor of the soup kitchen|
There are less today than yesterday. Could mean anything, stars fade. Whole constellations disappear without our knowing.
"I sAID chocolate milk, can't you even get THAt right," the knots in his face wound tight & frayed across the top in a nap of hair.
"All i have is plain."
"Well get me tea then."
All i have is all i have, my loaves and fishes--fried chicken, salad, corn, peas. Something warm to feel full for a bit.
He is one of the strong ones, still fit enough to work. Still clinging to entitlement, seeking respect, looking for what life took.
Complaint. Complaint. But he'll take another plate.
i walk the space between heavenly bodies. It's not a void as they say. It's not avoid---they say.
An older lady, eyes adrift, chewing on a crooked jaw, raises a hand for seconds, then puts a sticker on my chest. Found in a pack of skittles left over from Valentines, expired & handed out.
You cheer me up, it says.
She says nothing, just smiles a carved pumpkin, then turns back to eat. The knotted man rants. I walk the space between stars---at a soup kitchen on Court Street.
written for Imperfect Prose, which my good friend Emily is re-launching today.