Sour Wine


Within the candle's soft glow,
at the civilized setting of a dinner table,
the words spilled out vividly, bloodying
the table linen and scarring the plain white plates.


"We don't click anymore" came from nowhere,
like the unserved appetizer that I was about to swallow.
"And I'm very tired of it"~ The second line deepening
the cut to my hungry heart.


As the uninvited guests look on
in the restaurant of my choice,
my life rolls off the end of the table
and my marriage bounces to the
patterned carpet floor.


The "not clicking" part echoes furiously
as my soup became searing hot mud
that masked the sour smell of the words.
The colorful salad turned my throat
to a glacial slide that emptied into
the sunken acres of my insides.


My eyes searched for some escape
of the reality of dining alone, but even the busboy
had no explanation for the change in weather.
The waitress coolly filled the water glass
like it would wash down my bowl of tears.


"We don't click anymore"~like a pair of wine glasses
(not sold separately) no longer celebrating, have
suddenly shattered across the room.


"I'm very tired of it" Would that mean tired of my smile?
Or weary of the twinkle that I kept in my eyes for so long?
Tired, you say, of knowing the warmest place in my soul?

Excuse me waitress, I'm sorry, I won't be taking this home...

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