*after Edward Hopper's Automat
It's not such a terrible thing
to be alone, except for those
nights when the coffee is lousy,
but you drink anyway, because
no one would hear you complain.
This is a night of wearing down,
of ticking, of erosion becoming visible.
Call it a blue table night of the soul.
Even if someone occupied
the chair across from you,
What would you tell him; that
you've dreamed a life of circles
and lived one in squares?
He would say; "look into your
cup. Rest your head on the
table. The lights will keep you
safe, and when you wake
it will all be true."