Hand Grenade

It settles at our table,
a metal and porcupine thing.
While pleasantries hug the shoreline
and brittleness is held at bay.

You’ve shared with me a morsel:
A piece of broken bread.
A sweet slice of your existence.
A moment in your head.

Nothing will take away…… you say,
As he lunges for the pin.
Nothing absolutely nothing.
Not a hand grenade, or him.

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