Nervously, I PLEAT my napkin. Damp from my DRINK, it starts to shred. It’s not the only thing that is damp: I can feel sweat beading on my brow. The stranger next to me shifts away, trying to be subtle, but still, I notice. I almost comment on how it’s warm in this overcrowded room, just to reassure him that I am not sick, you know? Like, I don’t have a VIRUS or anything. But really, all of my attention, the attention of everyone at the table is on the little man with the green VISOR. The bets are being laid, and I am strung tight as cat gut on a fiddle. I try to look cool as I push my chips to the center of the table, saying, “I am all in.”

Georg’ann

Listening to post dinner clean up.
Dishes clanging, water rushing
into metal, metal striking metal
as silverware jostle in their bath.

From the easy chair, I imagine
her sturdy hands entering
a billowy cloud of bubbles,
reaching into the unseen to find

slender utensils. Remnants
of dinner released from sharp
fork tines and knife POINT.
WIDOW cleans with VIGOR.

His fishing VISOR still rests
on the entryway table, as if
a year hadn’t passed since
he sat here, from where I write.

Heather