He cursed when the spoons
overflew their compartment
and started bothering the forks.

They would mingle and clack,
he winces and his eyebrows
move across his forehead
like lightning in a fast,
hard punch,
he’s punching the
silverware,
he’s punching it!

What a sad man, always
mad what a lost man,
in a wave of sauce-less
pasta and
watered down soup,
he banged and bashed
and stashed and fasted.

Never wanted to eat,
left the spoons on what
seemed to be the right side
and knives,
oh the knives,
would bite on the side of
his palm.

He would grimace,
jump in place when his
stomach cowarded,
begging to differentiate
whether he was too full
or too hungry,
“Get out of the road,
you dumb mother f*cker!”
he always said to himself,
but sadly,
his last words weren’t
even his own.

~
~

Author: Azia May

Editor:  Travis May

Photo:  playscripts.com