I prefer booths;
these tables are too close together,
but not enough like a Paris café:
where’s the arrogant waiter
tyrannizing between the tables?
These wimpy servers are too pale
and worried to pull it off.
You were talking about your cousin:
how she’s dying of
chemotherapy or something;
and I was telling you about the crows
how they shit on my car
and burned the paint.
That guy over there must weigh four hundred pounds;
he looks like he’s going to eat the table next.
I thought his box of donuts was for takeout—
hear me? I was afraid he was going to eat me,
and not in a good way.
Okay. So your sis—