Empty seats ringed in a pink glow,
lots of paper napkins and stack of sugar packets,
the click of the pump, and half of the flow,
the plastic burnt around the shining ratchets.
Green eyes, a green dress, a closet full of dust.
A slow decision, a cornish hen alone on the plate.
And the next morning, after a suitable pause, trust
that fragments glued together look like hate/
History, the bats on the warm air shaking,
Tracing shaping flaws, the spidery skeleton
shape of shadow self quaking,
swallowing the light of the setting sun.
The street lined with pickups, palms, and ferns
Those heated memories like asphalt that burns.