I would like to have dinner with the man who treated me wrong.
The one who, when I laughed open-mouthed at something he said, remarked:
My, but you have more fillings than when we last met.
The one who wrote me postcards from Singapore
saying he loved sleeping on silk sheets
while I chased dust bunnies behind my couch.
I stood in the narrow hallway and stared at the stamps.
I would like to have dinner with this man
who, after a different dinner
of yellowed curry and cloying chutney, left me
to stand in the rain and watch the tail lights
of his rented car blur like bleeding eyes,
like hard choices.
I would like to have dinner,
on his white china plates
with their painted gold rims,
lower the lights,
lean in and say:
I would like
to have dinner
with
someone
else.
