Eating Lunch Alone At Wyatt's

Eating Lunch Alone

At Wyatt's

Cafeteria

line moving slow

man ahead old, palsied---

scooting the tray along the

slide rails, fingers pulling,

twitching--- red cool-aid

sloshing back and forth

getting closer each time

to the rim of the glass

and freedom into his

mashed potatoes.

Hard-pressed

for which to choose

pineapple wedges or

grapefruit half, choosing

finally the pudding,

looks toward the tables

the distance between, red

puddle already spreading

under the glass, pink

potatoes, both hands grip the

slick tray edges, braced for

lifting...

Relaxes

arms, lifting head

sees a face, recognized,

mouth rounding--- lips

wet, mucked, tongue coming

out-in-out--- in trying

to form words, right hand

shoots out and up, too

fast, shaking above

head wild uncontrolled

gestures, everyone looking,

mouth relaxes, eyes catch

mine,

mine follow his hand

down, watch fingers curl in

toward the leg.

Standing

at the door was a young

woman with short blonde hair who

crowds through smelling

of lilacs and squeezes in

front of me, saying, I'm so

sorry...

He's my grandfather...