Thursday, September 3, 2009

Lunch Poem No. 2

While I eat
I think about the people
who plucked lunches
from this basket --
one died in a plane crash at 32,
another whose book I bought the other day,
a third whose words I read, then read again.
One was my professor.

Did they eat as I do,
eager, expectant?
How did the food taste in their mouths?
At night I hear their voices.
Perhaps they will answer my questions.

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