At a Table

A posture that ignores a constant knock on the door

Turning away stubbornly and not to look back again; not even in repentance

The hands are burdened with collected memorabilia

Wooden table looks forlorn, a frozen quadrupedal looks dumbfounded

No more coffee stains and endless gossips about the rations

Now, space will be occupied with reclusive stirring of emotions

Window will stare at the half-eaten bread and careless scribbles on napkins

Drooping flowers mourn the chasm of endless emotional distance

Minutes stretch eternally through the labyrinth of jumbled dishes

Hunger balances precariously at the edge of uncertainty


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