Philip Ward
Eating out
The lame farce of restaurants
casting waiters as Harlequin
doll ladies, Columbine
me, clumsy Pantaloon
the audience squashing its nose flat
on the window
for a free show,
pretending not to be amused.
No. I find an all-night cayf
with tea-sta ns on its one formica ledge
and a tramp blowing his nose
between finger and thumb
We avoid each other’s glance
from gentility,
watching Night empty
the silver knives of the Moon
into its pockets and,
both outlaws,
keeping it to ourselves.
Page(s) 71
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