Handcuffed to Table Twelve

Seven in the evening
comes barreling
over the horizon

I rest
in the booth
of a roadside diner

in the company
of some
unfamiliar comrade

table twelve decorated
with half-eaten cuisine

and a young couple
seated speechless

the mother feeding
her newborn baby
a pink bottle

the father's eyes
glued to the giant
red sign which reads:


We will soon
hit the road

rolling seventy
miles per hour

but he will
be anchored

to that table