Tables

I.

You sold out
and fuck you if I
want to write on the
table.

Give me the one on the end, man, that's the
one for me
that's where they can only sit on one side of you
so there's somewhere to run
if they piss you off
and you only have to listen with one ear.

II.

Look at the trays disappear from
their stacks--smaller with time.

Each one a minute, a second
never coming back
just washed out reminders of what
happened yesterday

blurring into the next meal. all the same.
just stains that don't quite go away
scratches and cracks to leave a mark
saying, "I've been here before" and "I know you"

My friends are here where the smoking section used to be.
And I can see them in the sun on the concrete patio
in the smell of dumpsters that are still there

The leftovers that have always been served.