So tough that the man famous

for replacing the witnesses’ voice

with his own warped, distorted

baritone is serving chicken parm

 

and tortellini to us on a Wednesday night.

He is much younger than I expected,

maybe a teenager, with a mop of black

hair netted up.  He has a certain eager

 

engagement, maybe aware some guests

shift nervously when hearing him

the first time, place bets on what’s about

to go down.  It’s not like we’ve caught

 

all the criminals—or stopped making them

for that matter—but maybe there’s less stress

refilling water glasses than looking

over your shoulder for some vengeful

 

getaway driver oblivious to the fact

that you were just reading a script

from someone else’s life.  In the corner,

CNN stops scrolling through the same six

 

stock photos, cuts to another family ready

for their 15 minutes.  I catch him glimpsing

at the screen after he returns our bill.

He must be wondering when everyone

 

decided to share their story, how they

can be anonymous under such bright light.