Thursday, April 17, 2014

Table for One

This poem is "different", I know, but I really love it.  I absolutely LOVE eating out in a noisy restaurant, alone. So I wrote this poem about that experience. 

Booth or table?
How many?
They never infer
she won't be joined.
There are no expectations.
But some suppositions.
Intermittently, she's
reading, thumbing,
even listening.
Enveloped in the
clamor.  Soothed by din.
Counting the minutes of neutrality.
she falls into conjuring,
staring at the in between,
motionless far too long.
Demented? Affected?
There are no expectations.
But some are waiting,
others speculating, and
she doesn't care but
slowly relishes teeming

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