I’m seven and wait for my mother
at the counter of a jaundiced diner.
Tater tots cool on my plate.
I push them into a puddle of mustard,
like the way its sharpness
hides the taste of everything.
No one takes them from my tray at school
because this is a ketchup world.
My grandmother is the waitress.
Her cigarette smolders beside me
and her greasy prints bleed
through the crossword puzzle.
A large-bellied man sits alone in a booth,
his coveralls straining against the table.
He touches my grandmother’s hip as he orders.
The windows steam closed
as a cold front shudders in.
Not frigid enough for snow
but the wind’s no friend,
gives a shove to each umbrella.
The fluorescent light hisses like rain.
In the back seat going home
I slide beneath the choking smoke,
trace how the power lines
dip and rise between the scarred poles
and tie every helpless thing together.
