Florescent lights flicker
f u r i o u s l y
across the menu.
Squeaky stool
squeals to the rumble of my apatite.
Menu highlights a few
blinking options:
Four years under
lights and books
abroad with foreign time.
Partner and son
signing a contract
with a life sentence
and photo albums.
Or camera’s and interviews
asking how the you could have possibly predicted
that flop.
The waiter pauses at the table’s end
scanning the scanner.
Eyes pausing over the images
being absorbed like a portal.
What will you have today?
Saint's Muse 