As you’ve returned to my table,
ravenous, a hollow belly,
all slack skin and bones,
dine with me. Pull up a chair.
Here’s a plate, a fork, a glass,
Chew on my last supper.
My silence shall be your meal.
Delicious, it shall delight you.
A while ago I offered
the best from my cupboard,
I thought, a generous helping,
a simple repast, all that I had,
the bread of my identity,
all for a taste of company,
a bit of thoughtful conversation.
But you declined, a wrinkled nose,
a face, finicky or discerning,
your sanctimony, your hunger.
Now, my silence is all
that remains. Dine with me,
and we’ll whisper our regrets.