Lunchtime Black Poem by Phil Lucas
Lunchtime Black
She sits
only for an hour.
But,
there is no golden revelation
at the bottom of a snatched paper cup.
No answer
between nervous bites
from a wilted balsa wood sandwich.
Not even
a smile to the sun,
as she beats away the swarm
of office edicts,
will set her free.
Just a hope
that she is not another face
amongst this conjurors’ madness of souls.
That alone
may see her through.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 9:38:11 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
