The door shuts behind,
key turns, footsteps
stravege after
a tedious shift;

eyes lift up
then revert back
to telly, magazine,
PS3 and tablet.

The dining table
is empty yet cluttered--
inhabited by non-edible,
non-essential stuff.

"There should be
something or other
in the fridge,"
a mouth points.

"Got that, thanks."
Footsteps stravege back,
that's what it feels like
to be a meal-ticket.

The door slams shut.