Three Strikes, You're Out

January 10, 2008
By Rebecca Morris, Buffalo Grove, IL

Sitting in a restaurant with you
Makes life seem better. We talk
About us and in the background we
Listen to the baseball game playing on the radio.
A candle burns in the middle of our table
Slowly dripping wax. Our food comes to
The table. “And Sosa steps up to the plate!”
You sit there with fork in hand pushing the
Peas around your plate building a fort
Avoiding eye contact and conversation.
It reminded me of the snow fort we built
Last winter.
You whispering softly in my ear
About how we would be
Together forever.
“Strike one!”
A red rose lies in front of each of us.
Mine slightly wilting as you pluck
The petals off of yours.
“Strike two!”
The flame of the candle starts to flicker
As the wax starts to drown the wick,
Stripping it of anything to burn, slowly killing it
Like our conversation.
You place your fork in your steak and with the
Other hand, drive a steak knife into the heart.
“Strike three!”
You pull out your handkerchief, lightly kissed
With red lipstick and start wiping the
Juice from your hands. What’s left
Of the flame dies as the smoke
Burns my eyes causing them to water.
“And Sosa has struck out!”

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