I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least

two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to

warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.

When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're

not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears

but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.

Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk

before she was fat.