Emily in San Fransisco
HOLLY MITCHELL
I fork supper alone,
staring out past the diner window
at sea-salted X Avenue.
The sun begins to bow. A gent-
rified bodega flares pink
as rare filet in the sunset.
On the corner, two Hapas
touch ring fingers and fly away
like gruff seagulls.
I would catch them
if I were young.
I would cajole them into kissing.
But there is a beetle in me.
So instead I attend to rites.
I reach for an open jar
of peach preserves. Today is
a juicier Ash Wednesday.
With blushing orange,
I give myself a saccharine cross.
I lick the sacred from my pointer and sigh.
My time is at last synched
with an expiration date
on an expiration sticker
that cannot be removed.