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.
