Keeping the Table

The lemon ammonia is a yellow heat

creeping up the legs of the vinyl chair.

I’ve been here long enough to see

the sugar packets sorted by color.

She turned that corner at ten past eight,

the brake lights blinking out like a dare.

I’m still here. I said I’d stay.

The salt shaker is a small, glass lie

with a grain of rice choked in the cap

to keep the dampness out.

It doesn't work. The salt is a solid block.

I’m waiting for a vibration

in my pocket that isn't coming.

The mop bucket is getting closer,

sloshing gray water against my boots.