An old slice of pastrami

Lies at the edge

Of the plywood-line table

In the kitchen.

Old, mouldy meat

Hanging like a fungus(ed) tongue

Hungry

For attention.

But nobody is hungry for pastrami

Especially when it has turned green

And pockmarked- by not pepper

But neglect.

Why am I telling you

Ridiculous stories about putrid pastrami?

Because I ache for you to talk to me

And you won’t.

So I am talking- even if it is to myself.

I have nothing to say to you.

Not really.

Not unless

You want to hear about

Old mouldy meat

Lying on a plywood-lined table

Here, in my kitchen.