Free Lunch--Poem, P.W. Boisvert, "Waiting Room Dreams"

Forever eight, my lost son
Wanders the dim hallways
Of sleep, opening the doors
To long-abandoned rooms
Until he comes to this one,
Furnished from memory,
The once white walls faded
With the shadows of everyone
Who has ever stayed here,
From the blind watchmaker
To the wife who once tried
To scrub her reflection from a plate.

It's a room big enough for everyone,
Bound to remind us of somewhere else:

The sunlight filtering through the drawn blinds
Forming thin bars across the checkered floor,
Where your younger sister sits by the locked door,

Holding onto your mother's last words
Like a miser who sews all her money
Into her mattress, then starves to death.

My son walks in like he owns
The place, chooses my chair
At the kitchen table, begins to eat.

First, it's a sandwich with the crust cut off,
Then a piece of chocolate pie.

When the food runs out,
He moves on to whatever's left—

Yesterday's newspaper,
His plate and fork,
The tablecloth, yes, even the table.

He Continues to eat
Until there's nothing left but me.