When I don’t go out to talk lunch talk,
I stay home and we eat lunch.
We don’t talk but we make delicious food noise.
I let you play with fruits that stain –
cast their color onto our old wooden table.
I drop the silver, then pick it up,
to watch your face hear it crash.
A wet check, a torn book, a cracked phone –
proof in my hand that your new body wills a mark.
Again, I offer you the dirty shoe you love to chew.
Together we prepare for a time when things
might not be good.