Family lunch

Glasses are bleeding.
Dense, strong,
with a little gentle wire.
We are full from everything,
but at the same time,
We snack pieces of words,
Carefully choosing them
Among the leftover bread crumbs
at the table on which we just ate.
With piece of patience
I'm picking that ones
Stacked between my teeth.
Normally, I do not spit,
But discreetly swallows it
With an indifferent look.
As if nothing happens.