“It’s special,” she says,
“a special sauce I made,” and
she squeezes first a stream of
ketchup from the oversized
liquid soap dispenser, then again,
and containing her joy with a
kind of tortured frown she moves to the
mustard, and then the
and then the
mustard again, and finally
the mayonnaise.
She doesn’t look—she has made it,
by herself—a multicoloured goo in the
see-through container,
layered like an ant farm, and SPECIAL,
just for me, she says, and I accept it like
the gift it is, and quietly put it
in the bin
with the ordinary trash
when she disappears forever.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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