She watches as he signals to the waiter.

He doesn’t note how silent she is now,

he doesn’t catch her sadness, can’t see how

her eyes go dark and still as standing water.

Behind them in a fluid tangle, strange

ideas swim in black spirals, entwined

like eels. She watches how the subtle wind

tears at her husband’s hat. It isn’t strong

enough to toss it to the sky, but tugs

and grabs and shakes and doesn’t stop. Perhaps

a hurricane is needed. What she hopes:

a bomb will drop, all things will die but bugs,

the continent will slip into the sea,

the planet will implode, and she’ll be free.