if you see something, say something

if you see something, say something

Hayley

[	website	\|	I was a teeny-bopper for the CIA.	]
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Tentative title: The Yum Yum Cha Express

[Sep. 17th, 2008|02:03 am]

[	Tags	\|	poesies, rubbish	]
[	Current Location	\|	Grub Street	]
[	Current Mood	\|	exanimate	]
[	Current Music	\|	cosmic background noise	]

This is my first poem in approximately three years, so please be nice to me.

At the restaurant, we sit hungrily
like birds in the wilderness waiting
for a table.
Mouths watering, surrounded
by cigarette smoke and laughing soldiers,
I bury my head in my hands to drown out
my empty stomach.
I am riding on fumes.

Smith, party of 4, your table is ready.
Smith, party of 4, your table is ready.
Smith, party of 4, we sincerely hope you're not
dead in a ditch somewhere,
but there are other mouths to be fed.

After the summons,
we're whisked away,
menued, watered,
some bread in exchange for bread.
The soup of the day
is tomato stem cell,
organic and grown locally.

My fuel light fades.

The regular sits in his own company at the table
across the universe.
For 1/3 of a second,
he is 2/3 face,
1/6 full glass,
1/6 empty glass,
body unseen but assumed
behind an ionic column.

Then he empties his cup,
downing its contents in gulps and starts,
like light quanta
except with dark
rum instead of photons.

He beckons the waiter.
Please sir,
I want some more.

A bashful admonishment,
adherence to policy.
No, this won't do.
He'd like to speak to her highness,
the manager.

I've seen this fellow around before.
If Blood Alcohol Content were cumulative,
he would be 3/3 rum.

He's found me out.
It's impolite to stare.
It's a tragedy to be ignored.

His eyes narrow, and then, gruffly,
he informs me that he drinks
to suppress his appetite.

His looks too thin
to donate blood.
You don't look like you've got a weight problem,
I say.

He smiles the weedy smile.
"I'm not talking about food, sweetheart."

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