Disposable
by Anne Walters


Coffee and heavy smell of bacon
float through the air of city diner.
People who have nowhere to be
sit with waitresses that have long
since lost their spark.
It is four in the morning and
syrup stains my body.
Salt tears cover me—tears of a girl
dumped by a boy who tossed me to
her without a second glance.
Each tear seems weighted down
pathetic.
She crumples tears at my
edges, negotiating, trying to regain
control.
The boy takes
her hand in his,
crushing me beneath the
weight of her sorrow and
his indifference.
She’s screaming now,
causing a scene
to draw him back to her
someone who would charges into
a burning building
to retrieve a photo album.
He throws coins
on table and leaves without
saying goodbye. She
stays, motionless.
I, a wadded ball
on the plate of half-eaten waffles,
forgotten.






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