A dog under your table
you scratch and forget,
cross legs through angled shadows
pressing me back into the darkness.

Waiting for corner to fall,
I trace the wood grain,
smell the feast above me
and dream of broken wine.

I long for your lean fingers,
the wrinkles and whorls,
the grease under your red nails,
a bit of slippery fat dropped.

Kept by hunger, I search
the linoleum for patterns.

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