At a Table
Joseph Engel

 The shy one could eat
his plate, red faced

by thoughts that turn
the drift of words
into a Rubik’s cube.

The small rubble
of peas looks
like the number
of points he hears,
he believes.

If he were ten
he might find pleasure
in his mashed potatoes

create another mute
face for company

but now he runs
his food down
the darkness of his throat
like coal

as the others all
shift a bit or yawn,
as at a sudden stop,

a red light
on an empty street,

and look, he thinks
as if they
are ready to move.