The waitress is scraping the griddle with a spatula

The waitress is scraping the griddle with a spatula,

a rhythmic, metallic screech that keeps me from nodding off.

I’ve been staring at the back of this soup spoon

until my own face has become a geography I don’t know.

My forehead is a bulbous, silver dome,

swelling toward the rim of the tarnished metal,

while my chin vanishes into a needle-thin point.

Everything I am is being pulled apart by the curve,

smeared toward the edges like a thumbprint in grease.

My eyes are sliding away into the shadows of the booth,

two dark smudges on a polished, dented world.

If I move the spoon, the room bends with me,

the salt shakers warping into towers,

the whole night becoming something I can't hold straight.