The middle aged woman has artificially blonde hair,
Dark eyelashes. She looks awkward and lonely.
Her bright red scarf is obscured when she dabs her mouth.
Now she makes a noise as she cuts her food,
Perhaps asking someone to notice her.
The coffee tastes too much like coffee.

Someone moves the cutlery, it sounds like an orchestra
In its complexity. No one knows me here.
The fan heater buzzes and rattles in the corner.
Crazy machines horde round the table, on the roads.
They cannot spell. There is a plump boy who is self effacing,
Apologetic, almost sycophantic with his laughter.
As I get further from sleep, into exhaustion,
My back twinging, I see what there is.

I do not hallucinate: my vision strips down
To minute attitudes. I think of nothing
And everything lets itself be seen.
I stare into a space between a bright salad counter
And the dark through the door, blank,
Thinking about how the staff are watching me:
Sufficiently warm, tired me.

A man disturbs the sald bar tableau;
The fat boy is drunk, embellished by me,
Talking to his dad.  

Perhaps I'll walk forever.