lunch

she struggled with the gritty can opener;
like the one back home--bruised and battered
retching along the grated edge
the shared can of spaghettios torn open.
with coffee, the meal of starving literary types
split in half as well as could be
(even though she shouldn't have given him anything at all)
how was he to know
the sickly tomato smell felt like the John Deere clock at grandmas
the texture of tracing patterns on the olive green rug.
he didn't know that this lunchtime familiarity
processed pasta worse than a deep splinter
was a poor imitation of a life they had
if only in the whimsy of her mind