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THE ABSENT WAITRESS

April 4, 2018

Easter weekends

Tamely passed –

And tame pasts.

Lost lines, lost lines,

Important lines,

Lines of significance.

******

I call,

I belittle,

I hope for no carpeting,

My hopes, my desires, are petty,

They are of significance to me,

Like my lines.

******

You told a lie,

I don’t mind,

Two lies parallel,

Running parallel,

Now I’ll be doomed,

I’ll be sent to nowhere towns,

Nothing towns,

To ply a trade,

Not my own.

******

I hear calls on other lines,

It’s strange,

Everything is near,

Carpeted stairwell,

Stressed patients phoning,

The receptionist, not a doctor,

I think she has more wisdom,

She learnt it on the streets.

******

I passed my evenings in Naples wisely,

Searching out whores, sometimes drugs,

I had no shower,

This was a shame,

I found no whores, no drugs,

This was a shame,

I quite like the face of the whore,

The mannerisms of the dealer.

******

I prefer holed stockings,

These are whore-like

And desirable.

What’s your surname?

You’re correct. I know not your name,

That which was given.

******

All names to me seem given,

We inherit. We are given,

We do what with these names?

We throw them out

With the bathwater, as it were.

******

A Catholic school, near my home,

The line forgot,

And now, we do what?

She is a teacher there,

As of recently, very.

She plies her trade, chosen,

She’ll forget her calling, shortly.

******

Get up. Close the window.

We busy ourselves.

Black pen or blue,

The blue hurts the eyes,

It is a harsh blue.

******

I’ll mow the carpeting,

I’ll tear it to shreds,

Wooden floors, always,

Thick carpet, I climb and climb.

******

Children preparing,

Preparing to exit,

First thing’s first,

First thing in the morning.

******

They’ve forgotten me there,

That’s fine: I forget them

With ease. Easily forgot,

Death at home, in foreign land,

My blood bleeds, then clots.

Familial bloodlines lost.

******

A young lady, not quite professional,

I’ve got my date book. Saturday,

Friday, not. I forgot.

She takes out glasses. She reads,

I regard her. She apologises.

Charming young lady.

******

This café’s dead to me,

After all these years,

I remember grand old days,

She was special to me, to all,

She’s gone, her fate unknown.

******

Now, I write upstanding,

I watch the deadened coffee steam,

Pharmacy across the way,

They know my maladies,

Do they consider me illegitimate?

They know of my worries.

******

No. I no longer frequent that café,

Nor my Elsa,

That was leading nowhere.

It was clear.

At home, I write with ease,

So it seems.

Perhaps Elsa longs for me,

I was a protective figure:

I was poor in this role.

******

I walk with medication in my hands,

All who see me know my state.

He wishes that I would frequent his café.

He is doctor,

I have drugs, many, thanks to him,

They make me sleep, etc.

In no matter what state, I sleep.

******

One day, I’ll see them,

They of café abandoned.

We’ll pretend not to see,

I will smile inwardly.

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