The
Free Lunch (service included)
The waitress
brings him soup;
The Chef’s
special, written up
Sans serif, no
curlicues, no loops.
He bends over his
bowl,
Scoops up a morsel
of gruel,
And something dark
and animal;
Dipping his spoon,
dipping
His head, blowing
and sipping,
Tasting and
chewing spoonfuls
Of gristly meat
that stick in his teeth.
Chewing; it could
be the beef,
Rather hopeful of
a lamb,
Young and tender,
Melting in the
mouth,
In the palm of his
hand.
Slurping a greasy treat,
Burping, he bends
his head,
As if saying grace,
stares
Into the space
that offers
Instead …
She places a plate
of bread
Upon the table,
sliced knife thin;
A coin upon his
tongue -
The pain a song, a
hymn -
A paper cut, he
winces;
And she brings a glass
of wine,
The light upon it
slick, sanguine.
He licks his lips,
and sips, sups,
Convinced;
Feels it in his
gullet.
Pats his pocket
for his wallet.
He coughs, he’ll
cough up.
He will
pay the bill and leave –
Erasing the stains
upon his sleeve – a tip.
He could have
chosen another menu,
Lived and dined at
another venue,
Slipped into that
other life … repeat.
The waitress
hovers, canted over,
As he wavers over
something sweet;
Listening,
disposes, just, like a mother,
Like a wife,
immaculate; she advises.
She takes his
order for dessert,
Nodding her
responses,
Ticking off
chapter and verse.
He’ll get what he
deserves –
Just - the ugly
sister’s foot,
And it will fit,
at a push, with a nod
And a wink; and
what’s left on his plate
She’ll scrape into
the sink.
She’ll clear the
table and wipe the slate.
Placate.
He’ll have the
cake … and eat it.
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