by Mike Jewett
I take a picture
of a woman taking a picture
of a man sitting in a wheelchair
at an Italian restaurant.
She takes the picture not
because he’s in a wheelchair
but because he looks like her
father looks- or looked, before
the shaky signatures of Parkinson’s
began. A ring pierces the accordion
music playing on the loudspeakers.
The ring is of a pleasant ringtone
but it’s ugly, somehow.
A seven minute phone call tells
her that it’s all over.
A patron drops a forkful of
cannoli onto the marble floor,
and the woman walks out. So do I.
I get home and put the image onto
my desktop. I open the file, full
screen, close it, and drag it to the trash.