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We slouch in our private booth, blushing away
scrapes of silverware. I smear the splatter
of marinara on white cloth. Scattered
fresh pepper sprays from the splintered mill.
We allayed the silence once, days when
double-dates sprinkled laughs
that melted-in with the chatter
of neighboring booths.
I guess our patter went flat overnight.
Alone together, our ears sway
toward well-pruned staccato,
talk of bridge clubs
and a grandson’s first
loose tooth.
We slither down chunks of chicken
drenched in marsala, encave the
remainder in Styrofoam.
We nuke it as a midnight snack,
linger over it, warm as always
but remember it as
somehow sweeter.
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