One filled glass.
A microwave meat pie.
Camping out across the table,
is the noisy white conversation,
of too many red lettered bills and junk mail.
The TV, slightly out of frame with a dark, blank screen, chattering away into the background.
He sat on too many minutes,
In the evening,
Hours before daybreak
Lightly piano’ing his fingers over the surface of the table. The table legs dropped down to meet the floor, near his feet that lay one on top of the other, tumbling back and forth.
Angled sideways in the chair, he twirled his thumbs in front of his interleaved fingers.
Grossly engaged in the company of his own thoughts, the moment passed by partially unregistered as evinced by the vacant expression on his face.
By malakhai jones
(C) Copyright 2016