Feet interlocked under the table
elbows and coffee cups on it —
You're losing limbs now.
Yesterday when I walked home
in the chatter of drunk men,
sandals rubbing across gravel
and music
from a ringing cellphone
or the television from an old restaurant,
I was becoming someone else.
Catapulted words and trees that never forget —
You're only half a torso and a face,
maybe missing an ear.
Eight hundred miles then a thousand and eight hundred,
I still walk the same walk
and say those same things.
Round and round and round,
and you're just two eyes and a sweet smell.
I'm smiling wide across a table
and the sky is swirling.
The days last longer now,
and no one knows me.
Dessert, dancing and starry eyes —
You're nothing now.