Supper Time

Heart cold and isolated,

A man stays anchored

To his rickety kitchen table.

Fork in his unkempt hand,

He stares at the reheated

frozen food, incomparable to

A fresh home cooked meal.

It’s been so long since

Something inviting had

Greeted him from the

Dinnerplate that sat crooked

On the dirty hand woven placemat.

His brow furrowed over damp eyes

As he silently ate. He groaned.

Across from him, in dim light,

An empty walnut chair.

The only other seat

At the table with an

Unfixable irritating wobble.

He gawks, disheartened.

Hoping to see something.

But the chair remained

Unmoved and empty.