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Eating Out
by David Sparenberg
2014-08-08 10:13:03
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an old man stands in a doorway.  he is dust stirred by wind.  he is rags thrown out from shops.  he is like tumbleweed, or offspring, blood and bone, of tumbleweed.

(petrified claws clutch one another in open air graves.  heart murmur undulates across the valley of dry bones.) and the old man will be blown around until a wall of death stacks him in litter-piles of others.

he moves his lips.  ah!  Elijah...  his voice comes out.  voice of an old man who shuffles and is tilted.

his voice has the sound of sand.  sand scratching glass.  his voice has the taste of salt.  ah...

how terrible is the silence that surrounds a grain of sand!  how terrible is the silence surrounding a crystal of salt!  

he is accustomed now to invisibility.  only now and again, hunched over as he is, leaning, no doubt, toward the grave, he ponders, like broken bottle of poor wine, the blur of the world, apathy and soul.  (and has he not watched dry souls, hollow and brittle, dropping away in agony?)

the old man stands in the doorway.  and open doorway.  sacrificially, the moon weeps cold light behind him.  he casts a shadow, thorn headed and made huge by his rough and out of season coat. the shadow falls, weighty and unwelcomed, over the bodies, faces and table of those at meal.

people look up.  (unpleasantness of that moment.)  the clocks in their heads, with their spoons and forks, their moods and their chatter, and clocks of their hearts and clocks in bellies, stop.

only momentarily.  before someone among them, a sensitive, conscious and politically correct person, no doubt, asks the waiter politely to, "Please, shut the door."


David Sparenberg
14 July 2014

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