turkey club sandwich 

we're stacking jelly packets at the diner
& i'm trying to line them up by flavor:
grape, wildberry, strawberry. little stacks.
there's no an even number of each type
so i have to substitute some of the towers 
for butter packets. i'm with giulio or my dad.
he is my boyfriend or my father. he's ordering
an egg sandwich or a club sandwich. 
on the window rain comes down in questions.
soft but unanswered. will you become a woman?
will the airplanes try to take off?
will the far end of the driveway flood?
i think of going out there barefoot
maybe even in a bathing suite. laying down
in the black grit of the driveway. 
how the driveway puddles are always warmed
by the blacktop's heat. i am trying
to order something & faltering because 
my mouth wants rain water & my rain water
i mean my mouth wants to eat everything.
i order maybe a short stack of pancakes 
or maybe egg & cheese on a bagel or
just a thin salad with one hard-boiled egg on top.
the salt & pepper shakers mutter to each other.
we are not a good pair. we are very much 
in love with something not each other.
a boyfriend is often a catalyst for
some kind of loathing whether it's the self
or a window. he holds my hand across
the table. why am i dating anyone?
why am i alone? why does my father 
eat like the food is vanishing? bite 
after bite after bite. he gives me 
his pickle spears. he teaches me you can
ask for chips instead of fries & then
how to dip fries in ketchup. 
he licks his thumb. he laughs.
i wish there were planes taking off
out the window. the white plates are
heavy & i listen to sounds of clicking 
behind the swinging doors to the kitchen.
how a restaurant kitchen seems like
a marvelous place to live. the metal.
the glinting. the smell of meat
hitting the pan. a shimmering of oil.
a place to go alone. loving where
i don't belong. two glasses
of diet cola. lemon clinging to
the lip. his foot brushing 
my foot underneath the table.
a life underneath the table. 
i think of taking the fork & eating
from his plate. dad hands me
a quarter of the sandwich, held together
by a blue tasseled toothpick. 
he helps me bite down & asks me if 
i think it's good. i think it's good.
it's so good. the fresh bacon. 
the layers that make a turkey club.
toasted bread. note of mayonnaise.
i want to be skewered like that.
a tower. giulio clears his plate
& i want nothing & everything of his teeth
after watching him eat. it's funny
how i love him & he's nothing like
my dad. it's funny how it can keep
raining without stopping--
without getting bored of itself. 
my paper napkin lays down in my lap 
like a girl. my fork across
the plate. his eyes like drains.
like places to rinse myself.
what do i want from his mouth?
what do i want from my own?