Still Life Portrait

He frowns at them as if
they were whiny patients
in an orthopedics’ waiting room,
masking their hopeful glances
each time a door opens:

the stoved-up pen, two weeks
of mail and the duct-taped T V
remote sitting on the kitchen table,
where he no longer spends any time
eating steak and baked potatoes.

Now it’s Hot Pockets with this week’s beer
special from the Kum n Go gas station
down the hill and around
the corner from where she’d ride
the bike they stored in the kitchen,
next to the table where she left
the note underneath the pen
now broken.

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