Fortune Cookies
by Michael Neal Morris

Just a table over
a group cracked open fortune cookies
and joked as each message
was read aloud.
Three men two women
--but is that important?--
as old as my mother
but not old in the way
I expect to envision her.
Obviously they were
comfortable moving
like a baroque suite
from laughter to news of church members
to somber tones to laughter again.
I cannot remember the jokes
or the messages, only the laughter
as I waited alone
for my dinner
chest tightening
with each guffaw.

Copyright 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.