Open Mouth

The book lies open, pages still,

but noise invades against my will.

A rhythmic scrape, a wet, soft smack,

there is no turning, no way back

from this small torture, close and near.

The fork against the plate, I hear

each tiny crunch, each gusty sigh.

I wish that I could simply fly

away from this small, open space,

the sound of food upon a face.