91

He is at the table with eggs and
Coffee and cigarettes and the paper.
His face is pale and he leans in
To read the paper with a white
Scrap of egg hung from the prongs
Of the fork in his hand and he
Is motionless but for his red eyes.
The paper is old and the coffee also.
There are tracks of nicotine over
The surface of his palm as if a
Grained form of predetermination.
He reaches for a cigarette and for
His lighter and for a moment light
Visits the cavities of his still face
Flashing in and shaking on him and
In his rheumy eyes flames shake,
Until he snaps the lighter closed.
The only sounds are the articulations
Of a clock, and the cigarette burning.