The zircons in my lunch companion’s ears
are much too large for Saturday at noon.
Transparent as her ego, false as tears
of petulance, each signals like the moon
at dawn: a circle empty as a hole
against a surface pale as dying leaves.
They twinkle as she bites her buttered roll.
They glitter as she knots her sweater sleeves.

She moves her head to toss her processed hair
and wink her lobes, conversing as she chews
about her daughter. Twisting in her chair
she gasps “How could that 9 year-old refuse
to stay with me?” Appalled indignant then,
she agitates her zircon ears again.