|May 2003 / Volume Four / Issue Two|
The doors are locked and itís very late at some dark restaurant
built primarily of wood splintery as cactus.
Everything seems to be filtered through charcoal.
People who are all face
press against the glass door pleading.
The last waitress sits alone
counting her tips, lips moving in silent incantation.
Ketchup bottles are being married on the counter,
red mouth to mouth, like hourglasses.
In the back room the dishwasher drops a fork
like artillery into the disposal.
As you approach him you get that feeling
of stepping on a grease spot in a kitchen.
He turns and looks at you.
This is it, his eyes say.
His T-shirt is so thin
you can see his heart beating.
|Return to May 2003|