bad taste

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