Tonight's Poet Corner: Meet Me At O'Toole's

Meet Me At O'Toole's
by Belinda Roddie

As if I were psychic, I knew you were waiting
outside the diner, standing with a napkin
to wipe the grease away from my mouth, the salt
from my lips and my eyes.

You told me that the way the eatery is built
allows someone to look in, but not out. I believed
it. Whenever I wanted to look out
at the urban world of red lights
and parking meters, I only caught
the reflection of my stained sweater after
dropping a meatball onto my chest.

Outside, the smell of failing brakes
overpowered the cheap odor of cheese
and beef, chili pepper and lemon. You took
your time swabbing at my collar, prodding the

skin beneath, tender as an undercooked pork chop,
shame marinating the nerves beneath, until
finally, with every ounce of courage left
in my full belly, I asked you to stop.