The Empty Square

Stale flakes. A quiet, papery crunch.

The crossword, faded, on the box's back.

A child's hand, one word, barely a hunch.

'R-A-I-N.' And then it hit the track

where interest died. A blurry cartoon's grin

looked out, past the fiber count.

So much empty space to begin

with. So much nothing to surmount.

I ate slowly. The milk went warm.

The questions still there, plain to see.

Another square, another mild storm

of what was, what could be. Or not, for me.