He must be about eighty years old,
A kind face, who seems glad for the warmth
Of the crowded corridors filled with smells
Of food, luggage, and wafts of strong perfume.
He sits at the next table holding a garbage bag,
Takes out a box at a time, a wrap at a time,
Licks the crumbs, and makes a pile of paper
Next to his right hand. Some seaweed, a bite
Of rice fallen from a sushi, a piece of noodle.
No one minds him, they look at their boxes
Filled with raw fish and ginger, check their phones,
The music from the restaurant plays on.
He smells like garbage. His eyes are warm
And resigned, but the crumbs make a meagre meal,
So, when he finishes going through the wraps,
He starts all over from the stack of empty boxes,
As if opening them again and again
Will make the food appear, the way we replay
A memory hoping the rehearsal will
Divine a treasured moment, and bring it back.
When he is convinced nothing is left, he carries the stack
To the large bin that had been just emptied.
He takes a napkin from the supply station, returns
To his place at the table, and wipes it clean.
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Thankk you for writing this