alone in a tiny restaurant

the french waiter serves me a

hot bowl of soup d’oignon.

 “non” he answers blankly

avoiding my eyes,

he did not draw the large boat

on the wall behind him, no,

he does not look at those ships

moored to the docks – the ones calling

back (come back!)

why labor so hard at moving

so slowly, he decided, it is easier

to pour water than drift helplessly on it

so a spoon is placed next to my bowl –

and off he sails to the opening door,

forgetting me too.