A speckled man with freckles on his egg shaped head
sits, sipping coffee he holds in both hands, his elbows
crushed into the sunflower and dandelion placemat
on the kitchen table. Behind him, his wife
rinses grease and grits from a plastic plate,
then tips and drips each one, carefully setting it
into formation, to dry among others in the draining board.
The woman hasn’t spoken and the man says nothing.
In front of him, amid clutter gracing the table,
a glass bottle of Heinz ketchup, three-quarters full
smudged with peanut butter around its svelte neck
catches the shadow of his wife, working.
In a moment he will kill her with it.
