Bring your own salt.

at breakfast he is quiet, lonely there is no speaking creaking, wind and leaves the scraping of his chair the day the sun didn't rise he didn't see in the bedroom he is sleeping blanketed, comfortably and in the attic are his boxes dusty dappled things of thought alive only there, within in the morning he is sunny quite alone and free he has no memory of what it is to be the grass outside is gentle a neighbour's cat is company in the basement are his other things and he sometimes goes to see them and is quiet when he sings

Cracked spines and Dulled jackets enfold Dusty old things slanting On shelves, labeled  meaning Silently weigh Their collective contributions Unbearable Cold-blooded they watch the passing hand from columns of calculated neglect from the top shelf of the framework bent out of all proportion: Predetermined pages, the numbers whispering, determine every fate.