| Mended |
| Sitting, 2 a.m., On busted green vinyl, Mended with the wrong shade Of tape. Staring through My screen of smoke At the door As the last bit Of all-night Americana Stumbles through. I glance At the dark-haired boy In the booth across From mine. He's talking to himself, Probably not for the first time, Hands shaking violently, As if ready to strangle each other. His voice rising then sputtering out Like a car on the fritz. I'm not quite sure who's winning The war in his head. Meanwhile the couple next to me Argue about money, infidelity, And which of them has to watch the kids On Friday night. I wonder if these people, Like my booth, Were mended With the wrong color tape, Holding them together But not really hiding The tear Or maybe They started out clean And faded over time, Curling at the edges, Revealing more than they ever really knew. |
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