A Growing Glint of Light on a Greasy Spoon

…

Too soon,
it dawns on her
like these eggs, broken
before her as an offering:

His smile not quite
reaching his eyes. The
twist of his wrist when
he holds her
hand. The way her
name suddenly sounds
sour, spilling from his
lips.

The ketchup smear
on the table is a sign
of carnage past, knife
blade flaying open
hamsteak,
…………..Benedict.

The jukebox plays
good morning songs;
the trucker in the corner
is already on his way to
parts unknown. The orange
juice goes warm, pulp con
-gealed on top like a second
skin.

She wonders if
perhaps they will chalk
her outline right here,
the too-hot day already
sticking her thighs to
the vinyl seat.

The bill comes, and she
knows she’s already paid
too much, seen truth
……………………….too late.

 

 

..
Prompted by Toads.