Tuesday At Wetherspoons

by Kim Moore

All the men have comb-overs,
bellies like cakes just baked,
rise to roundness. The women tilt
on their chairs, laughter faked,

like mugs about to fall, cheekbones
sharp as sadness. When the men
stand together, head for the bar
like cattle, I don’t understand

why a woman reaches across, unfolds
his napkin, arranges his knife and fork
to either side of his plate. They’re all
doing it, arranging, organising, all talk

stopped until the men, oblivious,
return. My feet slide towards a man
with one hand between his thighs,
patience in his eyes, who says you can

learn to love me, ketchup
on the hand that cups my chin,
ketchup around his mouth,
now hardening on my skin.