incisors bared
when the waiter nears
like my drumming fingers are hardly enough
to tell you I’m ready

there’s blood on the menu
splattered in angry loops
like join-the-dots

my table manners are flawed these days
I can’t stamp out these bad habits
when my knuckles crack I’m mortified
and beg for more sangria

salt and pepper and bubbling
red glory adorns the table
in silence we eat and throw sideways glances
at the crimson, flowing
which pools


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