Sport 40: 2012
This scene, I tell you, is full of cinematic promise—
look at the fat waitress eating peanuts behind the bar.
And the lighting—so dull it is almost damp.
But how do I talk to you, now that you’re dead?
The great muck of not-knowing gurgles at the back
of my throat, coming up amalgam, like a pine veneer.
Dear table, chair, cheap food, beer—what company
can you bring? No, correction. Dear ghost-of-you,
dear friend, who cannot eat, speak, sleep, or do—
join me, while I scrape my way across this plate.
Indulge me with stories of what it might be like.
Let me imagine, just for this meal, that you might be real.