While I sit across from you
I’ll tell you what I’m not doing.

Not thinking of the friend
who never calls, the fish
smell coming from the freezer.

Noticing the gray hair
above my left ear.

Hating the bread-and-butter pickles
you bought—
(never ate)

My mind should stray
to the unpaid bills,
past due notices.
Instead I wonder

about the man
who must call
to tell me
I am past due.
What does he do
when he gets home at night?