In what chair was patience seated before we met?
At the long table where acquainted faces were eager to eat
we sat at each end, like king and queen and let the lines of empty dinnerware
and the cattail centerpiece divide our once linked gazes.
But I felt that wary stare peeking between leaves,
your gleaming mouth moving in vehement whisper, cursing yourself.
I see everything, but I pretend to know nothing as I place napkin in my lap,
looking past the guests beside me, into the kitchen door window.
You observe with intent, you assume my watch is bent to our friends.
Dinner isn’t ready, and everyone is restless.
I am quiet, and apologetic for the fellow who chose this venue,
because I know he probably feels no remorse, and only anger,
for the waitstaff spinning around the other tables.
Compassion isn’t a cell worth refueling for this company,
with large brains and demands, but space and time consuming bodies.
Our cups are dusty as our carpeted souls.
I see my fingerprints all over yours, through the constructed cold and cattail,
Clean, round spaces where I really knew
I touched you.
A lonely fool perked up, finally and thank goodness, drink is to be served.
How else would we last while our bellies rumbled with distaste and depravity?
I watched her pick her scabs and toss a pound of flesh to a neighboring plate.
It was yours.
You were too busy glaring at me with loan shark’s interest.
I am but a merchant who didn’t know what to sell and where to sell it,
but closed business when my ship found asylum on an island.
My visage no longer appetizer, you eat the poison on your plate.
It was an inerasable memory that the smell of cooked meat and spices interrupted.
But everyone was too drunk to remember we were hungry.
And I was too sad to order anything, anyway.
So I waited, glancing down, moved my napkin to wipe my lipstick off,
and on my lap, I saw,
Patience in between my knees, on my royal wood grained seat.
I look up, and once again, our eyes meet.