The dining room is a pond of darkness,
the tables lily-pads holding up
the drunken elbows propped on their edges.
A waitress walks by the light
of a kitchen door, and through her skirt
I can see the shape of strong legs.
The lights are thrown on the instant
I see this, and I hold myself up once more,
moving from table to table, looking
through the glare for that dark place.
|