The Back Table

The roar of the room is a dull, steady heat,

a rhythm of shoes and the shuffling of feet.

Jim looks right through me to find a new face,

while I’m just a shadow taking up space.

The gin has gone warm in a plastic-rimmed cup,

where a red-headed toothpick is drinking it up.

I’m counting the ceiling tiles, one through the rest,

an uninvited and motionless guest.