Exit 42

The laminate is the color of old teeth.

I came back for the yellow pie

because I remembered it being better,

or maybe I just remembered being hungry.

The waitress has a thumb with half a coat

of red polish, the rest flaked off

into someone else’s breakfast.

She slides the plate across the grease.

It tastes like sugar and candle wax.

It coats the roof of my mouth

until I can’t feel the ridges.

I sit in the booth and chew slowly,

watching a fly hit the glass

over and over, never quite getting out.