and I had chocolate mousse cake.
There we sat
each across from a stranger
comfortable enough
to savor our sweet vices
while making the right eye contact
to claim the same cursed blood.
"This diner's only good for dessert,"
I inform him
as he steals half the dollop
of whipped cream on my plate
like he has since the days
of divorced kid visitation.
He smiles with the knowledge
that his eldest won't piss rainbows.
I've learned to gauge his love
by the things he doesn't say.
We wolf down three days' calories
allowing beasts to sleep.
He left a lousy tip
but I didn't spring to change that.
My father will be missed someday.
I'll tell the boy a fable.
I don't want his inheritance;
only my whipped cream.
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