Table Talk

L and I at the beach one day.
After a few hours she followed me
to my parents’ house, not close but not
terribly far from the beach. An early
summer night. My mother laid out a meal
of cold cuts: ham, salami, baloney,
cheeses and bread. A light supper.

Her car low on gas, the latch
Stuck, the table talk was L’s predicament
Light came through the windows as she ate
a little, and worried and my father
got some device, not a crowbar
or anything to damage her tank.

Out front he sized up, poked, pried
with my mother and L looking over
his shoulder. Finally he pried open the latch.
L followed me in her car to the nearest
gas station, then a few miles to a circle
where she was able to get onto a highway
that led towards her parents’ home
where she’d been staying.

Not too long after this latch incident, L died
in an auto accident, a one-car fatality.
She hit a tree. A few years later
my mother in Valley Hospital, the start of
the year, my father at the end, at home.

Now they know. L and my parents
so intent that summer
on getting the latch opened.
They know everything, or nothing.