Lunch

LUNCH

what becomes of them

the red napkin, the soup

her nervous nail polish

tapping the marble table

her insulted mouth

closing on lasagna and salad

the chilled dew of chablis

on her peach coloured lips

her sceptical shoulders

when she speaks

and her skin

shimmering resentment

when he speaks

what becomes of them

when the table is cleared

and she leaves to invent

a life without miracles