The Collective We

The nachos are cold and the salt's on the rim,

and the lighting in here makes the faces look dim.

I tell them we laughed till the coffee went cold,

adding a layer of shine to the gold.

I say that the table was crowded and loud,

hiding my face in the ghost of a crowd.

But really the rain was a sheet on the glass,

watching the hours and the headlights all pass.

The waitress was tired and didn't ask why

I was staring at nothing and eating my pie.

Just one plastic fork on a napkin of white,

and the long, empty stretch of a Tuesday-dark night.