At Martha’s Deli

So Will had finally broken off with Faith!
There she stood, gnawing a shish-kebab.
It seemed they no longer soaked in one bathtub
And made that kind of little wave.

Now she came over, wiping her hands in her dress
And asking if I might not be her friend.
I led her down through the bracken
And listened again to what the doctors told her

Of how she might live only a year,
To where earlier on I had come upon the vixen
That must have thought this her finest kill.

The taste of blood on a greased knife
Whereby she would happily drink herself to death.
She kissed me hard. I might have been her own Will.