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Pale hexagons
over moon-hued chowder,
tomato soup
served in heavy bowls
and cups
in the eateries
of the downtrodden:
the greasy spoon
down the block from
the police
impound lot,
the Alibi Restaurant,
where the scored
plexiglass
in the phonebooth
is covered
with stickers
for bail bondsmen,
and the vending machine
in the gent’s
stocked
with French
ticklers and ribbed condoms
with names like
Sustain and Prolong —
pleasure
should last
longer
than it does.
When the
waitress brings
your order,
she fishes in
her apron pocket
to find
a glassine packet
of crackers,
as if she’s
making change
at an arcade.
She’s not the first woman
who wants you
to get everything
that’s coming.
How bright
these bland buttons
look floating
on the dark soup
du jour,
brown as
bongwater, metallic
aftertaste
of the tarnished
penny you swallowed
at five or six,
how quickly they
surrender
their fugitive taste,
almost there but not quite,
like a hushed, urgent
conversation
at another booth,
someone saying something
important
that might make
a difference,
that never resolves
into words.