As I Walk Through a Busy Restaurant
The three glasses of water I drank
with
our appetizer have done their duty,
and I make my way across the
hard tiles toward the restrooms.
About four seconds of conversation
from each booth enters my ears as I
pass.
The hysterectomy of the woman in
pink
is not what I will want in my mind
when
I return to my table and cut in to
my steak,
but I get all the details anyway.
Luckily, the old man in plaid won
the bowling pot this evening,
and his friend finally found a
buyer
for his rusty old Studebaker from
high school.
The young couple shouts about food
stamps,
and the old couple talks about
nothing.
The denim-clad men inform me that
the wheat in the fields is
beginning to joint,
and the sobbing teens behind them were
both
dumped by their boyfriends today.
How will they ever survive?
Like a storm-torn billboard revealing
its layers,
the diners thread together a string
of remarks
that is at the same time endless
and incoherent.
Spanish splashes into the pool of comments
as I pass by the smoky kitchen
and gladly enter the sanctuary of
the men’s room.
The safety of the empty tile cube
and the soft flit of Miles Davis’ trumpet
refresh my dripping, overwhelmed
mind.
I’m not sure if I can make it back
to my table
through the deluge that I know
awaits me.
I wash my hands slowly and turn to face
the door,
and once again begin to swim
through the flood of details –
about the green-eyed lady’s nasty
divorce,
the young man’s term paper,
and the blue-haired woman’s prescriptions,
which have caused her insomnia and
oily discharge.
I continue to brave the wave of
multiplicity,
driving against the torrent, trying
to stay afloat.
Across the noisy, blustery room,
a toddler in a high chair meets my
gaze and waves
his hand in the air, shouting
muffled noises to me
like a shoreline passerby trying to
save the drowning stranger bobbing
about
in the rambling, jumbled sea.
I try to focus on his tiny, flailing
hand as I
attempt to propel myself ahead.
The pelting elements, though,
become too strong.
They wash over me and will soon be only
a puddle on the burnt orange tile
floor,
rippling back and forth against my
lifeless body.
Great word pictures Tim! I'm with you vicariously.
ReplyDeleteWait. So you died from the overwhelming people in a restaurant? Or did you die from the food poisoning of the appetizer?
ReplyDeleteWell technically, the speaker of the poem died, not actually me, but what caused the death is up to the reader to decide. What do you think?
ReplyDeleteBoth just as deadly. Another reason why not to eat in restaurants. Just stay home and eat real food.
Delete