Alms

The lake is a flat, gray sheet

pressing against the glass.

I’m shaking. I’m a fool.

I left the wool coat on the hook

by the door, back where it’s warm.

She didn't say anything,

just slid the bag across the laminate.

White bread. The kind that sticks

to the roof of your mouth.

One side is thick, a heavy wedge

slanted toward the crust.

It’s too much mustard.

My eyes are watering, but maybe

that’s just the draft from the vent.

Someone took the time

to put a knife through the middle.

I didn't ask. I just ate.