Tuesday at Wetherspoons

by Kim Moore


Tuesday at Wetherspoons

All the men have comb-overs,

bellies like cakes just baked,

risen to roundness.  The women tilt

on their chairs, laughter faked,

 

like mugs about to fall, cheekbones

sharp as sadness.  When the men

stand together, head for the bar

like cattle, I don’t understand

 

why a woman reaches across, unfolds

his napkin, arranges his knife and fork

to either side of his plate.  They’re all

doing it, arranging, organising, all talk

 

stopped until the men, oblivious,

return.  My feet slide towards a man

with one hand between his thighs,

patience in his eyes, who says you can

 

learn to love me, ketchup

on the hand that cups my chin,

ketchup around his mouth,

now hardening on my skin. 

© Kim Moore