Solitary Bites

Diner booth, worn red plastic,

scratched formica top.

Grilled cheese, cut on the diagonal,

a perfect, greasy stop.

The fork scrapes,

a high-pitched whine.

Muted TV in the corner,

some crisis, not mine.

Water glass sweats,

a slow, clear trail.

Empty chair across,

just my coat, thin and pale.

The hollow sound of chewing,

a small boat adrift.