Last Meal

The wine’s a bit salty,
Like a bleeding thumb,
And I can’t get past
The noise you’re making
Trying to force the dead engine
Of conversation
To turn over and run For a while.

I find it hard
Even to look at you now
And the looks that cross
Your face with every failed attempt
At rejuvenation.

If we were honest people
We would both get up
And leave through separate entrances.
I think you would cry,
And I would shake my head in fury.

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6 responses to “Last Meal

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