An Encounter at Wendy's

They sat together.
It was a small table.
She was truly beautiful.
He was certainly sad.

He never looked at her.
He had nothing to eat.
His elbows were on the table.
His mind was on some edge.

She had a Frosty Junior
        and then some . . . .
She ate it all, . . . slowly,
        deliberately . . . facing him.
She chewed in silence, apparently waiting.
He looked at the walls, at the floor.

She never reached out.
They never spoke.

Finished, she wrapped up her plastic and paper
        and left it behind.
Together, they pushed back
their chairs and left, side by side
        without looking around --
                untouching.
He held the door for her.
I held my breath.

Some men sit in restaurants, sadly
        with beautiful women
                across the table from them . . .
hurt, they stare into the unspecified distance
bewildered, they endure deep sorrow.

Some women sit in restaurants, beautiful
        with sad young men
                across the table from them . . .
sympathetic, they try to be clear,
to abide, to forbear, to show that they care.
 

Some men sit in restaurants,     just . . .
        looking around . . .

        nothing better to do.
 

                                                                        © Anthony Hunt

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