At least I think it’s Banksy—
he’s graffiti-ing our corner booth
with little girls reaching for red heart balloons.
Our server gives him the stink-eye,
but Hillary’s stomach growls, distracting us all.
Hil orders a tempeh Reuben and a side
of sweet potato fries. Banksy’s not hungry,
but when the food comes, he turns
puppy-dog eyes on Hillary
and she shares her spuds. I offer him
a pull on my matcha-mango smoothie,
but the straw is soggy. Such is life.
Banksy is surprised that Hil
has taken up Bill’s vegan lifestyle—
apparently, she heard the grass
is always greener on the other side
of the fence, and in this case,
she reports, it actually is.
Hillary asks Banksy what it’s like
to be wildly famous without being known.
Banksy whispers in her ear,
mentioning her time as First Lady.
I order a slice of carrot cake
topped with cashew crème. Three forks.
Hillary wipes walnut dust from Banksy’s chin.
On the way out, Banksy paints a big blue
Hillary 2028 on the restaurant’s door.
