Cheap Broth

The diner air was thin,

like the broth in the bowl

he was nursing.

A bone-deep chill had settled,

not from the wind outside,

but from the inside out.

I saw the slick sheen on the surface,

reflecting the fluorescent hum.

A cheap fork, resting beside it,

waited for a purpose.

He didn't look up.

Just spooned the thin liquid.

It wasn't much.

But it was something warm.

Something to hold onto.

Against the cold that wouldn't leave.