The Blue Fox
We stood in line, backed up onto Fort St, like we did do
queuing for 'our table' in the Blue Fox.
Over dark, nearly bitter coffee
stirred with distraught
laced with angst
we held
up.
Remember, you called crying, "Can we have lunch, sis?" You said. I listened, pushing Eggs Benedict from one side
of the plate, to the next. "He won't clean the toilet" You said. I wanted to laugh, and later we did, but not then, when you were tired and teary, wading in shit, fed up with it, freezing to the bone, in his latest logic-free-zone.
The toilet. For Christ's sake.
Absurd.
A stupid conversation. An
unworthy fight. We decided unilaterally
ringing the death bells of your relationship, while
ordering a second cup of coffee, from a waitress, distressed
as you, who was adjacent the kitchen, crying in the back alley
over toilet fiascoes, or other mishaps. Perhaps calling a friend to the Blue Fox,
"Sis, can we have lunch?"
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