Four chairs.
One plate,
One fork.

Two chairs.
One napkin,
One partially filled glass.

One chair.
A microwave meat pie sat,
Camping out across the table from him,
ignored by the noisy, white conversation,
of too many red lettered bills and junk mail.

The TV sat just out of view,
slightly out of frame,
with the blank screen,
chattering away in the background.

The legs of the table dropped down,
in straight lines to meet the floor,
near his feet –
Feet actively resisting the flat plane of the floor,
restlessly, tumbling over one another.

He sat, late into the evening hours,
sat on too many minutes, being many miles away from daybreak,
Lightly piano’ing his fingers over the surface of the table.
Grossly engaged in the company of his own thoughts,
With the moment partially passing unregistered,
As evinced by the vacant expression on his face.

By malakhai jonezs
(C) Copyright 2016