The florescent lights outlining make-up’s imperfections.
With smells intertwined mixing coffee and recent meals.
The restricting feeling of shirts too small to fit, wondering if it’s meals too rich to give to poor fabric.
The blank stares of the audience, each miles way from conversations, as the speaker loses track because the lady and her flowered dress.
The waiter cleaning tables to keep his mother in her medicated bed. Connecting dots to writing cheques to meeting ends.
The message so clear, but lost in the trips of words misread.
Que-cards jumping from 10 to 12.
The batting of lashes but not to flirt, fighting sleep as an enemy of will.
Why attend, when the bills handed, and footed by those who know better?
By alas my tie falls nicely though I see half Windsor’s confessed by collars of fellow men.
I’ll drink my coffee as those now know my meal.
For I’m now a member of these dream forgotten suits, trading prose for cuff-links and wisdom for words.
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