Poets' Practice Pad

Well beyond being
spring chickens,
my friends and I
reinvent ourselves
in a Chinese Restaurant,
opening up secrets,
as we talk of
torn away, defamed loves.
I fear the grey plate,
and united like twin sisters
playing the fool,
the chopsticks
are out to get me.
Then, the fortune cookie
clenched in my hand
crumbles like an obscene gesture.
“Make someone else happy.”
The words shake like dice,
as I pause to sip diet Coke,
mulling over the speech
of our food.






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