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The Cheese Stands Alone

Not chosen,
not lifted from the board,
it waits—
a pale block
in the circle of absence.

The knives have passed,
the plates are cleared,
yet it remains,
square against the grain,
refusing disguise.

Storms may batter the roof,
drought may crack the cellar floor,
but here is endurance:
a stubborn rind,
a body unsoftened.

And still,
the truest peril is not hunger,
nor weather,
but the glance that says:
you do not belong.

So it stands,
not triumphant,
not broken,
simply itself—
the last witness
at the emptied table.

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