At the Cafe Bitter
All
the tables seat just one
Your bile and anger don't require a
chair
Feel free to wallow
As long as you care
The wait
staff so inattentive
Inclined to treat you
With sarcastic
contempt
Tip them passive aggressively
At three or four
percent
There are no appetizers
No foreplay for this repast
Go
directly to your entree
Served with buttered
Shards
of glass
Wash it down with
primo vino
Pressed just for you
From sour
grapes
If you long for
something slightly sweet
End your meal with just
desserts
I wrote this poem in 2009 after a friend told me about breaking up with the man she had been dating for a few months. Upon hearing that he had been dumped, he sent her a package containing a few of her things that she had left at his house, including a stick of butter that melted all over the other items in the box. I guess revenge is a dish best served with butter.
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