I was taught to tuck my napkin
in my lap as soon as I’m seated.

But at the Altoona diner where I eat
most Tuesdays, a new server sees

the bare flatware and brings another napkin.
On her forearm: a tattoo with birth

and death years too close together—
the saddest math. Rain sluices the windows

like stretchmarks. The next booth is a still life
of juice glasses and sticky plates waiting

to be bussed. Trucks hiss by on Route 22.
Another napkin, then another. My lap

is a safe landing pad for anything
that might befall us.