Tuesdays in a Tall Building

Of all the apartments on the block, his is the oldest building—
The single room smells like agèd fish.
When I arrive, he’s eating soup
While reading yesterday’s paper—
I didn’t think he was much of a reader,
But there he is, in that shaft of sunlight.

He tells me that the article is about how all the fish
In the bay are toxic and the fish market’s in the soup.
One of the major fish companies shut down the building
Where they gut and package them—Sunlight
Fish I think it was called. He said that’s what the paper
Said, and I didn’t bother to check; I’m no reader.

I asked what kind of soup
He was eating, and he said it was made from sunlight,
But as I walked into the kitchenette I saw the paper
Wrapper, ripped from the can, read Cream of Corn. The reader
At the psychic place had warned me about this: fish,
Creamed corn, and Tuesdays in a tall building.