In the café on the third floor, with unidentified muzak playing
The tables gradually begin to fill with:
Children squalling;
Grandma’s gossiping;
Mothers moaning;
Fathers worrying;
And you.
Alone.
Your table is an island,
Divorced from realities
Between you and the damp crowd
There lies an ocean of impossibility.
The pine table, a little scuffed
And the carpet showing wear
Are the things that you observe
When you rise,
Dodging protruding umbrellas
Your pathway to the exit
Meanders
Soon your empty table is filled with family silences.
thelibraryrooms 