Lindsay Daigle. April 3, 2013
The Walrus
The fat, bearded man wore
a coat that wasn't his. The fat
man's beard covered his neck
as far as the coat's collar, the coat
that wasn't his. He dipped his
fingers in anything edible
and licked them, scraped
teeth on nails, pruned the tips
to glutton every gob
of sour cream, of duck liver
mousse, of mashed potato
into his fat belly. The coat
was white, the coat
that wasn't his, a name stitched
above the pocket, the pocket
to hold meat thermometers,
tasting spoons, liquid droppers
and tweezers for hors d'oeuvres
presentations. Instead, the fat man
kept a small notebook
with tally marks beside names,
one for every hello he received,
two for every hello unreturned.
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