I hear the crinkling of heavy plastic,
then the clatter into the bowl.
Crinkling again, four exact folds
carefully creased and tightened,
three heavy steps to the refrigerator to get the milk,
three steps back to pour it
another three to replace the milk
and steps ten though twelve back to the bowl.
The chair rumbles on the floor as it is pulled back,
then raps hard as it is brought back to the table.
I can not hear the careful crunching,
but from long experience
can easily visualize the six crunches to the spoon.
Six crunches to the spoon.
Six crunches to the spoon.
The walls of my prison echo
with six unheard crunches to the spoon.