by Matthew Spataro
Plates clatter with utensils. Glasses drain every few minutes or so. There are borders, but no restrictions. A hand reaches across to take a fry. It’s batted once, twice; on the third try it’s successful. A half-eaten bowl of soup cools in the middle, three spoons circling inside. A hand hesitates by a stack of toast; another, holding a fork stuffed with eggs, waves. The hand takes the toast. A set of hands pushes their meal away and, like vultures, hands descend. A cup of coffee has gone cold, but the hands holding it are warm. And loved.
