I am dinner tables and the dying house plant:
books stacked on a coffee stained placemat.
The waitress from any American movie
wanted to be dancer, actress, star:
tends the bar
lovingly with a damp cloth sighing when she gets home.
We fawn over her – feel deeply her
predicament
as she makes dinner.
I opt for coffee instead and wipe the drool from her baby’s face.
We sit in silence as the babysitter, the waitress’s younger sister, exits.
The evening continues like this,
As I scrawl ‘nothing’ over and over, in pencil.
By the morning I’ve covered the dirty walls and worktops.
By morning I have tended to the house plant.
Royal Rose 