Ater his wife had left him
in that oh so final way,
we brought our friend and his daughter food.
The news had come as a sudden blow
so I grabbed what we had; the loaf of bread
bought for dinner, cans of tuna saved for lunch.
Standing in his doorway, unshaven, looking
decades older than he had the day before—
he received these gifts like lost children,
gathered them into his arms and held them to his chest.
Following him to the kitchen we found every visible surface
covered with food; tin-foil topped pie plates, plastic bowls of soup,
glass jars of spaghetti sauce, loaf after loaf of bread.
He shook his head and said well, we certainly won’t go hungry.
No, I thought, you won’t. It’s the most that we can do—
to offer your bodies substance. To come and go.
To say eat this and live.