invisible grethel

cold and hungry, again,
early morning in stocking feet,
juggling coffee and a cookie,
my store-bought sweet drops,
skidding across the linoleum.

i race for it, the "5-second rule,"
scooping it up, blowing it off,
popping the mass-produced,
not-nearly-baked-enough,
morsel into my mouth.

... swallowing hard.

i am hungry, will never be full,
cold, fingers crooked and narrow,
clench tightly to the mug handle;
unwilling to feed the dead today,
i leave no trail of crumbs.

sliding my socked-foot,
coaxing the evidence
against the baseboard,
I want and need to be,
utterly alone in my grief.