Rice and water- potato and water-
Pasta and water-
These were the things of their dinners on
Nights when I was not well.
My dinner was the water-
Not rich, nor thick; not warm nor cold.
“It will make you better,” they said.
“Drink it. Drink it.”
All those smells -the aroma of the feast-
Filled the air and the sounds of their
Happy voices and excited fragments of
Floated down to my room
And under my door
Where I sat propped upon pillows,
Muscles filled with intangible aches
From lack of work or movement in play
And I listened idly to a word here or
Hoping for some form
To be a part of things -their thing again.