he says something smart
just to ease pass the women

who talk over toddler shorts
while cell phones in purses
fill the air with badgering tones.

no one seems to hear him
so he leaves through the back door,

lunch and a magazine
grasped in either hand.

the sandwich is dry,
starchy like warm shirts,

the letteuce is limp
and lies there like
laundry that gets kicked
into the corner,

the magazine is old as well,
ads for detergents in decades old designs,
features on celebrities with faces
that make you snap your fingers,

widen your eyes,
make you wonder
who they used to be
and what you wore
at the time,

he flips the pages,
looking for a letter he wrote to the editor
about a book review
that mentioned his favorite novel
in a rude way,

a missive he typed
ten years ago
that must have blazed
the office when the editors
opened the envelope
he sealed with the
darting tip of his avenging tongue,

a letter they printed
and he stared at
for months
while imagining
a balance restored
among the invisible gears
that rule the stars,

but the page is gone,

torn out, missing,
absent like love
in a tight, clammy fist,

there is nothing here
to signify
that his tongue could do more
than taste bitter ironies,

the magazine is creased
and torn
in ways
that speak of moving containers
and stacks of things
that don't get tossed
as the years
slip by,

there is nothing
but a half eaten lunch
and women
comparing service contracts
with arms full
of plastic bags
filled with gifts
that will break
and find a home
deep in a drawer.