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.