all black

once the menus are taken away
we have nothing to talk about.
withered lemon slices float like corpses
in glasses of ice water that never
recede past half-full or half-empty,
there's always a waiter waiting to refill
and a straw to nervously chew until the food comes.

a leathery woman has bloody lipstick on her teeth
and a vampiric tendency to pin you into small talk,
positively pallid in the burger joint's dimness.
but we have nothing to talk about
because the menus were taken away
and god forbid we mention the dead guy
who brought us anonymouses all together anyway.

it's apparently in bad taste these days
to wear all black to funerals.
I stab uncomfortably at the levitating lemons
and slurp until icy pinwheels crowd my mouth,
shooting up into my brain like intravenous chemicals.

watching my extended family,
I feel more than once-or-twice-removed.
metallic laughter ricochets off the walls like bullets
and condensation pools around my glass,
the crumpled napkin leeches the liquid.

the minute hand already twitched twenty times
and no one has even said his name.
although I've heard a lot about Bible camp and the recession,
because the menus are gone
and we have nothing to talk about.

but the food arrives, the plates are passed,
and more is put in our mouths than let out.
when the chatter falls you can hear the soft rock radio
and the scraping of forks; I'm still slurping my drink.

finally I overhear:
"he's in a better place,"
and think:
"than Hanky's Diner? Impossible."

The summer sun outside beats down unforgivingly.
Maybe they were right.
I shouldn't have worn all black.