Inscrutable, like my signature
on the thermal paper of my receipt
as the waiter’s blue ballpoint dies.

Your face, a map without legend,
I cannot read, stranding me
in the zone of forlorn, wayward boys.

Waiting, as if this were a funeral
we cannot leave until the dead
are rolled out under electric organ din.

My hand, sore from useless insistence,
pressing on via invisible circles cutting
the paper, despite the pen being dry.

Expectations, practicing unique math,
are divided by reality, resulting in
all the disappointment gravity can restrain.

Your walk away, like a sated coyote
crossing the yard, that dangerous saunter
of a predator unbothered by former carnage.

Indeterminate, like the future
rushing toward me as the waiter returns
with a new pen to finalize this last lunch.