dinner

the old man

stores grief in a box

that he keeps in hanover

bringing home

pockets filled with sorrow

and mint wrappers

more easily discarded

his son clears the table

fixes a plate covered in foil

and suspends disbelief

it’s a hard time of year

his back turned

hands on the cold porcelean

being alone can be hard

his own half century

weighs heavily while

searching for words

of comfort

and you get through it

the old man

shakes his head

imperceivably