washing the week's dishes.
My bare foot finds
a brittle strand of pasta
from a night I'd hit the wine.
It cracks in half
against the cabinet
making me wonder about a stranger
I'd glimpsed at briefly in the darkness.
It was 5:23 in the morning last week.
I was traversing the bridge
on my way to work
when I saw yellow lights
spinning in the shoulder.
A highway truck was crawling
behind a walking woman
with no apparent rush.
I checked local news sources
the next day
to find out if she'd jumped
but no one said much on the matter.
How many cases go unreported?
Once the last of the forks is rinsed
and dropped in the rack to dry
I crouch down to pick up the fragments
of linguine, curious if her neck snapped
when her body hit the Hudson.
The rest of my Sunday's been chipper.
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