The Low Salt Diet

The power went out when the transformer blew

leaving the diner to settle into a deep, quiet blue.

Only the emergency lights over the kitchen door

cast a sickly red glow across the linoleum floor.

My soup arrived in a bowl with a chipped, white tooth.

It’s mostly water and salt, if I’m telling the truth,

with three perfect circles of carrot, frozen and round,

and noodles that drifted to the bottom without a sound.

I watched a single bead of yellow fat glide

across the surface, nowhere left for it to hide.

It shimmered like an eye in the dim, red gloom,

concentrating all the loneliness of the room.

I didn't ask for a cracker or a glass of tap water.

I just sat in the booth like a lamb for the slaughter,

swallowing the steam until my throat was red,

feeling the weight of everything that wasn't said.