I choose a table in the middle
To feel like I'm part of the rush.
Regulars are identified by their silence
Receiving their drinks without need for a word.
I stumble over my order...
One small? tall? short? Fat ameri-frappe please hold the dairy...
I'm certain I did it wrong
Every hole in the wall has its own lingo
To distinguish those in the know
From those who wandered in

I'm a wanderer, without a doubt
The man behind me is impatient
He's one of the silent ones
Unsmiling in his dress shirt
I wish I were a real person like him
Who knew to say short instead of small
And didn't sit alone at tables
Writing phrases no one cares to read.