From the Fishouse

Vernon Johns

There were maybe four of them, perhaps five.
They were headed, where? It does not matter,
only, they were not home yet, were not near
anyone who could have cared. So hungry,
they stopped there anyway. And when they heard,
We don't serve your kind, one among them laughed,
That's okay. We're not hungry for our kind.
We've come for food. And when the one waitress
who would serve them-she had children at home
and these were tips-finished breaking their plates
behind the building, he called her over
to the table. Lady, my one regret
is that we don't have appetite enough
to make you break every damned plate inside this room.