We sit three stools away and can not talk
bold enough to understand
one another.
She moves to the seat next to me and asks
if my bacon is crisp. I say more
or less—want a bite?
There is a tattoo of a cross on her forehead.
My cousin Beryl done that to me when
I was 12, horsin’ around, he was 19
and no good.
She goes to *** or powder her tattoo; I pay
my bill and walk outside under a sky
so blue I want to cry.