Tag Archives: table

Private Questions

I’m drinking messages from bottles,

imported labels

to be served domestically.

The girl balancing it to my table

doesn’t look old enough to be here

but the people in charge

place aesthetics over taste

and this beer is good,

although it’s a little too full.

It still foams at the head

and although it’s a little too cold

the glass still sweats down into an ocean.

And I dream of cigarettes,

waiting for a reply to that text I sent

to long ago to remember.


Last thought forgotten

I’m wasting space all around me,

allowing myself to simply linger

along the dotted line

like the coke lines at the next table.

Here and now,

I’m sinking into myself,

by myself,

having one-sided conversations

where there is no asking for advice

and the only shoulder there is strains my neck.

This is a rumble of spare parts

where skin stretches

and splits if you’re not careful

and I’m never mindful

when it comes to these landfills of suspicion

where recognition comes at a cost

and a whisper could destroy everything.

Life lands us in a cycle of days

where the same things are done

and the gestures we collect

are left in the back of our minds

until the stink of the person next to you

brings it all back for another turn.