DINING OUT

After visiting you
in the hospital, I dine alone,
the only party of one
in this bistro
where even the silverware
comes in pairs, in groups,
in clattering crowds.

I want to write a note
on my linen napkin
or the check, the stark
and gleaming table top
to explain that I'm alone this this time
not because I'm afraid
or abandoned, or lost

in a strange city,
but because today
riding the elevator up
to your white room,
I crowded in close enough
to smell the make-up and aftershave
my fellow passengers wore

to mask their sorrow.
Coming down, I rode alone,
my own sorrow folded
neatly in my purse,
while a sharp silence
looked over my shoulder,
unimpressed

by the clamor my life makes.
Tonight I take that silence
to dinner.
I drink martinis and feel it
spinning drunk inside me,
feel it laughing at my
polished manners,

hiding behind my teeth
when I talk to the waitress,
a smiling young woman
with a thick yellow braid
that shines like a snake
coiled around her head
and into itself.