My heels squish in the marshy ground. 

I demolish tortilla chips with a plastic fork

so my fingers will not drip with queso and salt.

Five empty seats surround me like witches.

If anyone sits there, I promise I will growl.

Ah, who am I kidding — I would relinquish my table

to the slouched football players whose jaws

have more muscles than my straw body. 

(I swear their flexing jaws wink at me.)

Where is my kindergarten self?

She would hyena laugh with biscuits 

falling like snow from her mouth.

Squish herself into an occupied seat

just to smell her friend’s blackberry shampoo.

“Sorry” is not a word she knows.

Lonely lunches only happen to the elderly.

Mother’s spare quarters clink in her pocket

and she exchanges them for a cosmic brownie.

“Calories” is not a concept she worries about.

Lunch is followed by careless coloring, later

the crayon drawing of a dog (purple with eight legs)

will be scotch-taped to the fridge.