The Royal We

The fries are the temperature of a nickel

and the ketchup has a skin on it now.

'We’re having a hell of a night,' I type,

sending the lie to a screen three miles away.

The waitress comes by with the glass pot,

her eyes drifting to the empty seat

across from my elbows.

'Just the one?' she asks, her voice

rounding off the edges of the question.

I look down and see the red Exit sign

reflected in the pool of Heinz.

It’s vibrating every time a truck

hits the pothole out on the main road,

shaking the 'we' right out of me.