Wrong Address

The laminate is sticky where the syrup pooled.

I'm picking at a creamer's plastic throat,

the foil lid curled back and half-unspooled

like a tiny, silver, sinking boat.

He leaned across the booth and spoke my name,

or maybe just the space where I was sat.

His voice was flat, without a hint of shame,

the kind of truth that kills a conversation dead.

'I don’t love you enough to keep on lying.'

He thought his wife was back from down the hall.

I watched the grease on the window drying

and felt the masonry begin to fall.