Youngest Table

The meeting dragged, about a parking spot,

My gaze just drifted, lost in thought.

Then someone spoke of 'disco,' a far-off haze,

And every head around me turned to praise.

A ripple of knowing laughs, a shared, soft sound,

While I just sat there, solid, on the ground.

My hands, so smooth, against the scarred oak pane,

Felt alien, apart, and oddly plain.

No shared past, no thread that linked us then,

Just quiet observation, now and when.

A sudden chill, a space that can't be filled.

The youngest here, a stranger, neatly chilled.