by Anna Szabó

The speakers are all liars, sweating red
sunset, orange sunrise vibrates the TV
at dinner, the conversation
doesn’t start again,
in the static silence a crackling of throats,
after twenty-five years the clock halts,
clattered forks, hands well-washed,
plastered over, hollow words richochet off walls,
snarling family, poster smile,
the rattling cars at five, doses of morning brandy,
the homeless wander aimlessly,
and that old man on the bus, the heir,
motioning and muttering to himself forever.