Booth Three

The waitress is arguing with the cook

while my coffee goes cold in the mug.

I shift my weight to take a look

at the floor and the stain on the rug.

My knee catches a sharp, silver bit,

a staple that's holding the wood.

I reach down to the dark where I sit

to feel what I never quite should.

It’s a graveyard of gum, hard as stone,

fossilized rows of a stranger's old chew.

Gray and discarded and left all alone

under the table where the varnish is new.