Since She Took Her Life
Mike Finley


I am in a restaurant
unwrapping a napkin
when for no reason the people
stop sipping coffee,
become monster babies
from a monograph of freaks
cyclops baby, girl with no brain,
hour-old faces that didn't quite
make it, dry eyes crossed
with expectation of death.

I wish I could salve this feeling
like I butter a roll,
but bitterness is not a face you make
its roots punch through you
and tangle the heart.

Families are joined together
like paper dolls,
then pulled apart at the arms,
and the rest of the village,
well-issued and well-nourished
with all the right parts
in all the right places
peruse their menus
like passengers on a train,
their eyes on the scenery
ride innocently over
the rust-red tracks.