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.
No comments:
Post a Comment