Only Here, Only This

The styrofoam container sat

on the hood of the rental car,

lid half on. Noon. A strip mall

I hadn't been in eleven years

and hadn't been in today either,

not really, not on purpose.

Ninety minutes before the train

and the place was just — there.

I ordered what I always ordered.

I don't know what I expected.

Change, maybe. Something off.

The way memory softens a thing

until the real version can only disappoint.

But it was the same.

Exactly the same —

the sauce hitting before I'd swallowed,

the bread underneath going soft the same way,

the same heat in the back of the throat.

Eleven years.

In the parking lot, a dead tree

in a concrete planter, leaning slightly,

doing what it could.

I ate standing up.

Threw the container away.

Checked the time.

The flavor was still there on the platform.

Still there past the first stop.

I couldn't tell if I was grateful

or if I was trying to decide

if I wanted it to go.