Consider this: a placeholder
for the broken line
of tables, your gnarled knuckle
pushing away the crumbs
and detritus. Every day
there's a new mark,
fork in hand, the carving
away, and you dine alone
because that's how it's been
for thirty eight years, tethered
to this bench-line, and outside
the window, you see it:
the flash of underbellies,
seabirds in flight.