J. J. White

  Curly black streams of candle smoke drift above

  the table and tickle my nose as

  my menu blocks the stares of 24 heads and 48 eyes who assume

  I choose to eat alone.

            My People signals, indeed, I expect no one? someone?

            Peer over Angelina Jolie and an emaciated African baby

            at the attractive couple in the throes of the after dinner

            mating ritual, a hand on knee, a leer, an innuendo?

   I read nothing and everything,

   while they stare back,

   and smirk, lost in each other’s dreamy eyes,

            now 22 heads and 44 eyes that peer and sneer.

            They’re very attractive, my Brad and Angelina.

            She’s so pretty – not plain

            Pretty girls dine.

            Plain girls eat.

   I have, two eyes, one nose, one mouth.

  God’s sense of humor arranges

  me this way.

  The check will set my escape.

   I have things waiting, a Sheltie, solitaire, DVD’s

   that won’t play themselves

   for hours until sleep cuts off

   the day and readies the next.

  The taxi driver might change everything,

  he’ll be rugged, not handsome but rugged…

  and shy, not shy, but quiet,

  and we’ll say nothing, until we arrive.

  I’ll ask him up for a drink with

  my Sheltie, and solitaire and DVD’s that

  won’t play themselves, but first the plain check

  for the plain girl and the 48 eyes look away.