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At the Next Table
The woman can do nothing
but discuss her ex-husband.
Her voice is flat; her bitterness
has become matter-of-fact.
Her daughter and son must be used to this:
They munch fries, casual,
no sign of scars—happy to take a free meal
on Mom. Children of divorce
must be opportunists. I wonder
if they eat as easily with their father
and his newly pregnant wife
(does she obey her biological imperative
and urge against child support for these,
the relicts of her husband's old spent seed,
no part of her?).
The daughter is probably 16.
She could be me
with her dirty-blond hair
brown corduroy jacket,
flared jeans frayed at the edges.
She is remarkably calm for being
divided like a battleground after war:
bloody and trampled, rejected
then claimed by both sides.
You saw a little girl who looked like me
in the mall the other day. You told me of her
in a wondering voice: her blond curls,
her delighted smile, the way she laughed.
She could be ours, you said.
At the next table, the mother talks
of missing checks.
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