THE NEXT TABLE OVER

THE NEXT TABLE OVER
the man at the table next to mine
says to the woman across from him,
“listen, this is what Mickey Mouse sounds like,
all hopped up on crystal meth.”
then he does an obnoxious impersonation
and I watch the rain slide down the window
washing away another dead afternoon
the woman at the table across from this man
she smells like a saint and acts pure
and when she speaks
her voice sounds soft and pleasant
but given the opportunity
I know she wouldn’t think twice before agreeing
to a ten man Mexican gang bang
she just has that look about her.
Mark comes over and says,
“which one of the ten commandments is your favorite?”
I tell him, “I don’t play favorites”
and he responds, “oh, so you worship them all?”
I wait a few moments
clench my fists and say,
“I’d worship that,”
nodding at the perfectly sculpted ass
of a young girl pouring cream into her coffee.
“oh, she’s not so bad,” he says
before pulling out a book by Samuel Clemens
with the cover torn off
after a few moments
he looks up and says, “where’s Tristan? I thought
that you guys were playing Scrabble?”
“he left. He couldn’t take the heat.”
Mark goes back to his book
and my stomach moans
before I go into the dark brick-walled bathroom
and shit in the toilet.
I think about the life of a toilet
how miserable it must be
to all day long be fastened to the floor
and shit in over and over again
I wonder how many shits
by how many different people
that poor porcelain bastard has seen
and after I wipe my ass a few times
and wash my hands
I walk out the door and outside toward home
thinking that things could be a whole lot worse.