Sarah Little


there’s ice rattling in a glass
two tables over. its pitch
feels too high,
too loud for this quiet room.

i look over at the fisherman
as he is finishing his dinner.
he comes here three times
a week,
same time, same days.
his routine is the same that his
father lived.

he lives by a blueprint
to his life.
sometimes, i wait on him
when my shift overlaps with his
meals. we don’t talk,
beyond the standard conversation.

you could set your watch by him.

he works the same as his father did
and left the house just the same
when he moved in.
the neighbours say
it’s frozen in time.

everyone in town
and he doesn’t seem to hear.
if he does hear, he doesn’t let on.

he stops swirling the glass around now – the
ice will be too melted to make noise.
it’s his father’s habit, the
older waitresses tell me.
they knew the older man,
see too much of him in
his son.

i watch him work across the plate
and imagine a binder of blueprints.
they’re crammed into the rings,
too many to fit easily.

Sarah Little is a poet-storyteller. When she isn’t conjuring new tales or adding to her to-create list she blogs, knits, and sometimes goes looking for shenanigans. Her work has appeared in L’Éphémère Review, Alien Pub, and Milk + Beans, among others. She published her second poetry chapbook, Not Your Masterpiece, in January 2018.

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