mike

McDonald's on a rainy night


Here we sit and stare at each other
through spaces filled with coffee-spills
and table napkins, a wet paper trail
to connect the yawning gulf between us.
Occasionally you or I venture a word
or two for a semblance of conversation,
word-play akin to the divinations
of a Delphic oracle. Much easier to read
the flight of migratory birds than
predict the clime of your private thoughts.
So we sit, and stare, and I contemplate
the utter transparency of plexiglas,
an openness we will never have.