crafting his intrigue in stable objects,
the two-legged table assembles a
balance,
arranges the matter in such a way, that
bouquets extend and permeate,
dishes forget their inhibitions,
disregard the cold
potatoes and lukewarm meatloaf, while
customers ease into conversation,
subconsciously
aware of his measured display:
“I have no idea what to order.”
“Everything has garlic… I hate garlic.”
“Just tell the waitress you’re
allergic.”
… the typical exchange.
Meanwhile, the structure braces with
laughter.
For his steady grace beneath the
folded hands, pointy elbows and
fugitive glances,
bits of wealth tease his smooth
surface.
