The counter's gone where you always sat

The counter's gone where you always sat,

and the light—that particular light at four—

is now coming through the window

of a cell phone repair place.

You walked past today and felt nothing

until you remembered the taste,

which is when you felt everything.

The pasta there was nothing special,

nothing you couldn't make at home,

but you never did.

You came to this table,

this chair that faced the street,

this exact angle where the sun

turned the sauce the color of old brick,

and somehow that made it matter.

Now there are phone screens in that window,

cracked and glowing,

waiting to be fixed.

The counter is gone.

The waitress is gone.

The four o'clock light is still happening,

just falling on different things,

illuminating different losses.

You could go to another restaurant.

The food is probably the same

or close enough.

But it would taste like you're eating

at the wrong table,

under the wrong sun,

remembering a place

that doesn't exist anymore

except in your body's specific hunger.

So you don't go.

You just walk past sometimes,

and let yourself want something

you can no longer have,

which is a kind of ritual too,

a different kind of table,

a different kind of light.