As she enters the brightly lit
station café she reads the
dinner menu on the chalkboard
by the door. Out of habit
she carries the soup
to the white robed table
by the painted window.
Tomatoes and grease
form a patchwork motif
at the brim of the bowl.
She sets it down without
spilling a drop. The five-o-clock
train is early, she leaves untouched,
a crumpled five dollar bill hidden
under the pepper pot. The act
of not eating is much easier
than the thought of starvation.
The appetizer waits for the
bus-boy starting his shift by
the swinging kitchen doors. Later
that evening when the conversation
at dinner turns to fellow travelers,
the 'Right to Life' and global implications,
she is once again reminded
of the power of indoctrination
on the hearts of all good
paradigms, Liberal or Conservative
fiercely defend their right
to hold the only true
definition of freedom. You
never know when your
demon will be the lost dream
held in the heart, of someone
listening at the table. Silently
suffering fools, plate undisturbed,
she leaves the conversation
for a cigarette in the sunroom.
Evidence of spiritual superiority
flows over the edge of the ashtray,
spilling onto the framed photograph of the
busboy waving at the camera.
Serving organic dessert with a smile
she returns to the table. Moonlight
floats through the recycled
wine glass, cobalt blue, made
by women in Mexico, free-trade.
A sparkle of lipstick on the rim
echoes the dregs of the red wine.
She enters the subtlety lit
bedroom leaving her rings
on the bedside table. Sleeping
alone while red numbers count down
the minutes. Morning comes on time.