by John Grey.
So visible,
like we’re etched into
the ceramics of this place,
sketched by waiters,
photographed by other diners –
the demarcation coming apart
under all this attention.
Everyone’s clanging spoons,
waving napkins,
filling in our shadows,
smoothing out the jagged path
connecting us
to their less treasured times.
We’re part of their distortions,
their disputes,
while they seek verification
that we’re just flesh and blood,
not some smug, exclusive
manifestation of love.
This is our day
But look and listen
to that loud interminable feasting.
It will always be their meal.