Here someone opened a can of Vienna sausage,
and in another place a tin of sardines,
a fried egg, sunny side up here,
there noodles straight from a saucepan.
In the face, there was something always missing,
the eyes not hollow, but deep, still present here,
but faraway at the same time,
always one foot placed here, the other someplace else,
the nose, never broken, looked somehow fixed as if it had,
the lips clear and clean, but chapped and bitten in memory.
No, all the features were there, but something was gone,
maybe to that place where his other foot was planted,
lost but still attached.