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Table For One
I'm seated and curiously observing:
The slight blonde girl in pink wants another balloon
Her mother cannot even find her own eyes, lost beneath her food
Stale conversation of defeat floats out of the window like charred paper.
She sighs: “There is nothing left to save.”
He can only return the sigh noiselessly.
With a head full of spare parts, he spears his heart with his fork – but it only drops again.
I think the effortless wind through the goldish late afternoon has stolen them like a Griffin.
Just dropped them on two distant tors; they have balled up like armadillos.
I draw deeply on the remaining half-inch of my cigarette and kill it like the rest.
I wonder the same yellowed thought: Is a single tendril of smoke ultimately less pained?
A beer arrives. I thank the waitress in a voice carved out by distant glaciers.
