At the restaurant we sit as if for the first time sitting
together, considering the other across a table,
across years. On the TV, the Road Runner theme song
plays, but only you turn to catch a whirlwind of
T.N.T. smoke, the scraps of coyote, the remnants of
a lesson never learned before the owner’s son flips
the channel and you must turn back to us as if for
the first time. The owner in the apron laughs, points
a pencil at the glaring screen, its residual static, that
song still vibrating, reminding us “That coyote is
really a crazy clown,” as I try to order No. 19 without meat.