they acted as if I was not there
alone with my elbows on Formica, only six feet from their booth
she said she wished his mother was not moving to town
“I wish she had not outlived Dad” he said,
his eyes looking through the window
like he expected to see her appear
or perhaps, through the old glass, he saw his father
stretched out in a dark pressed suit, silent, supine
while his mother sat tall in the first pew
feigning agony for the loss
of something she never found
her face hidden in her hands
while the priest prayed, and
spoke of the man he did not know,
one who had only come to his church
after time had silenced his days
and the embalming fluid filled his veins
but mother wanted the mass
mother wanted a glistening casket
a shining home he would not even see
“Dad did not believe”
“I know” she said,
stroking his hand that held an indifferent cup
from which he had not drunk a drop
“I know, but it was for the family”
“*******, we are the family” he said,
pulling away, sitting upright in his own pew
again looking through the glass
I knew, he must have been back
with his father, when they sat
together for the feast,
or that moment in time when his father
released his grip from the bicycle
for the first and final time
setting him free to spin down the roads
his father knew too well, perhaps
even the one that ended in this café
where on a mournful Monday
he and his wife would lament loss
over unbroken bread, and let a stranger
hear their tormented tale
what you hear if you listen in an old cafe