Table for One

The diner is mostly empty at two

except for the man in the corner booth.

He’s working through a salad with a heavy tooth,

a wet, rhythmic grinding that I can’t undo.

Every time his plastic fork hits the bowl

it sounds like a shovel on gravel and stone.

I’m trying to eat my grilled cheese alone

but the sound of his jaw is taking a toll.

It’s a small, ugly thing to be angry about.

But the squelch of the dressing, the snap of the leaf,

is making me shake with a senseless belief

that I’m the only one left who is truly without.