The smell of beef ramen rises
from the bag between my boots.
Sitting in the passenger seat
on this January night, I wait
in the Whole Foods parking lot
for Luisa to come back
with ice cream. On the lamppost
in front of our Outback, someone—
presumably Nate—has tagged
nAStyNAtE. Aren’t there other qualities
one would rather be remembered for?
The aroma and my stomach’s gurgle
remind me how you loved soup
and noodles. But in your last weeks,
nothing tasted right. No matter what
I cooked. I rolled my eyes, clenched
my jaw, even after all the years
you cooked for us. I admire
Nasty Nate for his honesty.
The signs all around the parking lot—
For Whole Foods Customers Only—
worry me. Did someone see me
walk out of the parking lot
and return with my takeout?
With Luisa still inside
deciding what flavor to get,
I imagine a beeping tow truck
backing up to our car.
I get out, try to convince
the driver of my innocence.