I’ve been staring
in short, measured glances
at the way you lean over your cake;
at the cup you sip.
I don’t need you to know who I am.
I pick at my food
these tables away.
I don’t guess at your name,
or age,
or preferences.
I don’t wonder what you’d say
to what I might say.
I don’t get distracted
by where you may be going,
or where you might come from.
I don’t wonder about your nights alone,
or your times with others.
I sip my coffee
and eat my slice of cake,
almost tasting the waiter’s knife
that separated mine from yours.
These tables away
I watch us feed ourselves.
I do not ask permission,
or feel embarrassed.