ANGEL FOOD

The ocean of thought at the bottom
of the barrel, breaking like waves
questioning beaches, is all froth.

The game above our heads broadcasts
everything we’re not: fast, agile,
rich. We watch with pleasure, washing

down our losses with this fiction.
The waitress has my mother’s name
and is made of angel food cake.

No one mentions politics or love.
The freshly mown lawn of the pool
table reminds me of childhood

Sundays, but smells like spilled bourbon.
A bitter sun intrudes, throwing
shadows onto laps and caps down

on foreheads. This Sunday, we kiss
off everything that counts, drink it
dry, and laugh about the damage.