Serving

We set and reset,

pacing in this room.

The paths between tables have now become muscle memory.

We mimic them in our dreams

without even knowing

We watch someone leave,

their stomach fuller, their pants tighter.

New wine glasses are polished.

Now we sit and wait,

hoping

they will come

they will sit at our table-

at our feast

But the chairs remain empty

and I can hear the words to the song playing

-- some jazz song about falling in love.

So I count my bills,

rest my feet,

and serve myself the leftovers.