Lunchtime

Sometimes,
on rainy Tuesdays,
when the sun deserts the earth
and all that is left of joy
resides in an empty kitchen,
unused and unloved
for as long as an un-lifetime,
I remember you
as you were
here.

Or,
on jovial Saturdays,
you still play your father’s records
loud enough to wake me
and the dead
before noon comes.

And I still yawn and grouse
as I watch you hum and sing,
dancing and smiling
for Miles.

And,
on these days,
you still talk to me
and we still argue.
You still love me and still laugh.
You still cook
and

you still eat
away
at me.

-Raphael Armand