I often find myself
talking to waitresses
as if they held my fate
in memorized dinner menus
and the special of the day
would in some way
make me feel special
that day

I often sing to bare walls
because my voice
is too dull and tired
to command the attention
of a single warm body

I belt out ballads of grief
but the walls never applaud
instead the paint peels
my voice buckles
abandoning the futile notion
that even bare walls
can bare souls like mine

and when my lips seal
my heart drops
my eyes close
I search the darkness
for better menus
and a waitress
with a smile

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