Mayonnaise and Salt

The rain is hitting the kitchen glass.

I watch the blurry headlights pass.

The overhead bulb is a sharp, white glare

on the empty table and the extra chair.

You didn't ask if I wanted to eat.

You just brought the plate and a place to sit.

The ham is folded, the crust is gone,

the quiet carries the evening on.

I see your thumbprint, deep and wide,

pressed in the bread on the soft white side.

It tastes like salt and a borrowed grace,

enough to fill this hollow space.