Bent Tine

Drove past the old diner,

the one with the chipped sign,

hydrangeas gone wild around the door.

And there it was,

caught in the thick green tangle.

A fork. Bent.

Exactly like the one

I flung that day,

hard against the glass,

when your words

cut deeper than they should have.

Its tines splayed, a broken hand,

rust-colored, choked by leaves.

A small, sharp echo.

And you're still gone.

And I still drive by,

clutching the wheel,

that old anger

a tight fist

in my gut.