FROM THAT DAY my meal arrived to me. From another of your women. She was my meal. She pressed the downstairs buzzer. She did so in your name. I buzzed her up. She put the so-called food down. I never saw her. I looked through my peephole but closed the wrong eye. I made her leave it outside. Don’t you like that I’m careful of people? ‘No,’ you yelled down the wrong end. Your wrong end, not me! Her food is not mashed enough. I do not like raw veggies. Not cooked enough for food. I do not like carrots. I had bread in the freezer. Frost-taste melts in the window-sun. I throw her meals out. It piles and smells. I won’t risk the door closing if I put it down the chute. It stinks till you come and do it. The woman harps on the buzzer. I go to bed nude because I’m hot, not naughty. I can’t hear your voice. Are you mad at me? I hang up. I pick up. I listen for the tone to finish. It doesn’t and doesn’t.

Doesn’t and doesn’t.