Inside a Restaurant at a Table on a Date Where You and Me are Supposed to Become Us

 

I pick up my glass of Coke, look inside,

and see six pieces of ice staring back at me.

"What the hell are you doin' watchin' us,"

they seem to scream. "You're supposed

to be concentratin' on your frickin' date

who is sittin' on the other side of the table."

 

So, I look up from the ice, across the table,

and past the girl's eyes at a little boy inside

a high chair enjoying a bowl of dates.

I catch the boy's eye and he chastises me.

"Goo goo ga ga" (translation: "You're not supposed

to be looking at me, but at the girl between us."

 

In response, I glance at the map of the U.S.

underneath my dinner plate on the table.

"You just don't learn," a state that was supposed

to look like mighty Ohio says to me. Inside,

I agree with Ohio, but something still stops me

from looking into the face of my now lonely date.

 

I remember when there was a time and date

when a special girl and I were us.

She had no problem staring at me,

and not even a ten-foot high table

could have prevented me from looking inside

her eyes. That time was gone, I suppose.

 

She left me, and to move on, I'm supposed

to meet new girls and go on many dates.

Just so I can feel better on the inside,

and stop thinking about what happened to us.

The poor girl on the other side of the table

can only wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

 

"It's a lot easier to talk if you look at me,"

she says with a smile. I do what I'm supposed

to do and meet her eyes. The circular table

shrinks as the little boy with the dates,

the glass of ice, and the map of the U.S.

lose significance. The storm has quelled inside.

 

I can now concentrate on being inside

a restaurant at a table on a date

where you and me are supposed to become us.