dinner

The fork has pierced through the tube-shaped pasta

It sits there, on the plate, surrounded by sauce

And more of the pasta, some sausage too

I look at it and my tummy almost growls

But it doesn't make even a half-hearted effort

To make my hunger known

The fork almost beckons me

Asking to be lifted up from the plate to my mouth

Placed back on the plate after I've pulled the pasta into my mouth

Chewing slowly, swallowing

But my hands are limp in my lap

I want to move them but my mind whispers that

I am just too tired for any of this