I told the guy on the next stool

I told the guy on the next stool

that I was sick of my own mouth.

I expected him to play the fool

or point my compass south.

But he only nodded at the wood

and let the silence sit.

I felt, for once, quite understood

in the heavy thick of it.

A wet ring grows on the napkin there

where the condensation bleeds.

It’s a strange and heavy kind of air

that a lonely person needs.