There was a girl named Marianne,
built like a coffee cup
stained by too many fill-ups and chipped like a heart
and we slumped together on swiveling bar stools
atop plastic cushions that gave no comfort
bolted to the floor by the weight of our soles.
We would laugh, until I left her,
those high long trills meant to push at the night
at the neon lights and the small city noise
and we washed the fear back down our throats
with flavorless meals fried and black burnt coffee
salted waiting with wishes and swallowed.