I ordered her favorite plate
of sorrows, poured in
with steamboat soup.
The restaurant holds its proud past
in mahogany furniture, their armrests
rawer now, like rough wood
or the once sandy brush
of her arm resting on mine
like her head of fluff and inertia.
This air-conditioned wall, still
a pillow for work-worn heads
grateful to lay down their worlds.
The sparse patron scrapes
their plate clean of leftovers.
My soupspoon scratches
a tune and the soup thins out
its bittered broth. I am left
with a bile of phlegm on a napkin,
served by a soured owner
willing the years behind.
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