Lunch

The tablecloth, napkins, and the waiter’s
jacket are as white as pure intentions
and as frayed with rewashing as plausible
stories. At two place settings they study

the menu items and see no good options.
The waiter will suggest prix fixe because
they ordered it once, and it is all they want:
It’s being taken care of and negligence.

The remains of a furtive hour slump on one
dessert plate. They brush fear away, with crumbs,
nudge fragments between dejected cups. The check
is paid in cash and this will run its course.

Kim Suttell lives in New York City and can’t decide if her favorite tree is chestnut or linden. Some of her poems reside in Right Hand Pointing, Cleaver Magazine, The Cortland Review and other journals. Please visit them at http://page48.weebly.com.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s